


Willing Victim

by BirdInTheCave



Category: Titans (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Batbrothers (DCU) Bonding, Blood and Injury, Brotherly Bonding, Conner is bonding with Superman or something, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick is the glue that holds them all together, Family Feels, Gen, Hiding Injuries, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, I don't proof read anything, I forgot to write in Superboy, I might come back and do it eventually but as of right now literally nothing is edited, POV Alternating, is this a, moment?, no beta we die like men, team as a family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2020-11-26 05:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20924933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdInTheCave/pseuds/BirdInTheCave
Summary: His brain is foggy, vision occasionally swimming, and his body aches. His ribs twinge when he breathes, bruises that throb in time with his racing heart. He hurts, but it's barely a scratch in comparison to everything he's been through. He knows he can't tell the Titans, they'd flock around him in a herd of concerned mother-birds and bench him for who knows how long. That's not something he can afford, not to mention it wasn't necessary. He was fine. A couple of deep bruises and bruised ribs were nothing, he could work through them easily. Sure, sometimes his vision whited out or went blurry, but it was only temporary. He was fine, really.





	1. Prologue

Nightwing crouched unsteadily on the edge of one of San Francisco's many buildings. His eyes are narrowed, mask fitted with new prototype lenses equipped with loads of detective tools. He was grateful for the upgrade, leaving more room in his belt for combat items, but right now he couldn't focus on scanning the area much to his chagrin.   


His head ached, the solid bump on the back of his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat and sending pulses of agony through his skull. The pain, oddly, localized right behind his eyes and he'd be lying if he said his vision wasn't a little fuzzy. He could handle fine, though, even if the Titans didn't agree.   


He told himself that's why he didn't tell them. Because he didn't want them to keep him from patrols, keep him from working. He knew that was bullshit for the most part. In reality he didn't think it was a problem, it was only a minor bump on the head and some bruises, and the idea of having them worry over it made him more upset than he'd like to admit. He had been known for his big heart, once, before he locked it away and buried it deep. Thing is, he couldn't just stop caring. He could, however, keep anyone from knowing just how easily he gave his heart out.   


So, here he was. Checking out the last few alleys in his assigned sector for the night and trying to reign in the pain that made his head spin. It was embarrassing, really. A few nights back he'd had to stop a mugging not far off from the tower. Only problem was he had been Detective Grayson at the time, not Nightwing. That meant no fancy fighting or acrobatics. The attacker had gotten in a few lucky shots with the crowbar he'd swiped from the dirty ground, Dick having previously knocked the knife away. Nightwing was just glad he still saved the poor kid, a young teenager that had reminded him far too much of Jason.   


His mask beeped and Nightwing startled, not expecting the sudden pull from his dizzy stupor. He perked up on his perch and slowly stood. A bruise on his thigh twinges, his ribs aching, but his vision didn't spin so he considered it a win.   


Gently, Nightwing pressed two fingers to the corner of his mask and spoke, "Nightwing."   


"Hey! 'Wing. Still can't get over the new name. I like it." Gar's voice easily filtered in through the comm. unit in Nightwing's ear. There was a nice wireless connection between his mask and the comm. Really, Lucius had outdone himself this time around. "You about done? You've been standing there for like fifteen minutes, is something going on?"   


"Are you monitoring my location?" Nightwing huffs an amused breath, smirking silently to himself as he carefully lowers himself down from the ledge and walks across the rooftop. He pulls his grapple gun from his utility belt and eyes it dejectedly, masked gaze flicking up to the tall ledge of the building he needed to get to in order to continue his trek back to the tower. He wishes he could walk without confrontation but not only would that set off alarms in the Titans but it would be reported and exploited by civilians quickly. An especially deep bruise, right between his shoulder blades, sent a sharp pain through his body at the idea of swinging from rooftop to rooftop. His arms were fine, surprisingly, but the amount of strain his usual acrobatics would put on his injuries just hurt to think about. "I'm all clear."

"Good. See you in five." Gar teased, a challenge in his sing-song tone of voice. It was just something they did. It was usually the younger Titans that ended up stuck on monitor duty during the later, more dangerous patrols and most of the time Gar was more than happy to chat it up with Nightwing while the older Titans took care of the darker streets in the city. Sometimes Rachel would join him, the three of them talking while Nightwing took down common criminals in the slums of San Francisco. A lot of nights Gar would give Nightwing a set time limit, sometimes really short sometimes more reasonable, and it was like a race. So far, Nightwing hadn't failed a single one. There had even been a time where Gar had given him one minute and thirty seconds to make it back to the tower from across the city and Gar found him sitting casually in the kitchen with twenty seconds to spare.

The idea of racing across the city to get home right now-- in under five minutes nonetheless-- made his body protest, pain lighting up his nerves while he struggled to find the will to even fire off his grappling gun.   


Thing was, he needed to keep up the illusion of being fine. He grimaced silently and steeled himself, fighting the urge to roll his shoulders knowing it would hurt like a motherfucker.   


"You're on." He forces his tone to be upbeat and determined, gritting his teeth as he finally fired off his grapple and took off towards the roof of the building a block down, at least five stories higher than the one he was on. His back throbbed, ribs flaring in agony and his side flared like he'd ran too much.

_ Five minutes, Grayson. Better hurry. _ He thought sourly.


	2. One, Two, Three Little Birds

Titans Tower was in sight, merely a few blocks ahead of him, and he forced himself to hyperfocus on his location and not the agony rippling through his body. He still had one minute to complete Gar’s little race and normally he’d be confident enough to casually stroll the rest of the way. Right now, though, he wasn’t completely certain he wouldn’t just collapse on the next rooftop he landed on.  


A harsh breath forced itself through clenched teeth as he swung up onto a rooftop across from the balcony he planned to land on. He was so close. His legs were trembling, weak beneath his weight, but still he pushed himself to bolt along the length of the roof before vaulting off the ledge and firing his grapple one last time. The slack runs out quick and Nightwing grunts against the pain the strain puts on his battered body but it only takes a few seconds for the swing to end and he lands in a shuddering crouch at the balcony platform right outside the common room of the tower. He stands quickly when he realizes he’s not alone, sending Rachel a gentle smile as he steps through the doors and out of the cold night air.  


The fireplace is on and immediately he finds himself wrapped in the comfortable warmth of the inside, the fibers of his suit quickly absorbing and trapping the warmth with its thin yet effective insulation. He quickly reattaches his grapple to its holster-esque pouch on his belt, moving towards Rachel and slipping onto the couch beside her. He kicks his feet up onto the available ottoman despite how it made his legs scream in protest, they’re sore and bruised but no matter how much they hurt he refuses to let appearances drop.  


Rachel smirks at him, eyes sparkling, “How much?” She asked.  


“Five minutes.” Nightwing shrugs.  


“Time left?” She’s smug, taking a sip of a Snapple Nightwing only just noticed. For a moment he just watches the flames in the fireplace flicker, enamored by their dance before remembering he still needed to answer. She was always on Dick’s side, cackling on occasion when Gar is frustrated by his inability to win their little competition.  


He shrugs, “About a minute, a little less.” He admits.  


Rachel sends him an odd look, “Cutting it a little close this time.” She observes curiously, “Why’s that?” She prods.  


Nightwing shrugs again, “I have to give him a little bit of hope every once in a while.” The lie slips off his tongue with a sense of ease that should make him sick. It doesn’t. He’s had to lie about his identity for fifteen years and he’s lied about his emotions for just as long. Lying is a big part of being a superhero and it’s an even bigger part of being a Bat-Adjacent hero.  


Rachel giggles, smiling brightly as she pushes herself up. “I’m gonna go rub it in his face a little.” She explains, Snapple swinging at her side. “You should go get changed. No suits at Movie Night.” She calls over her shoulder as she disappears down the hall.  


He nods, though she’s long gone. He knew the rule well considering he was the one who made it. In complete honesty, he’d just forgotten he was in uniform. He was pretty sure he was crashing. He’d had plenty-- too many-- adrenaline crashes before and this was a very familiar feeling. The aches and pains were settling in and getting comfortable while the exhaustion began to settle in. His head was already spinning but now it was filling with cotton too as he pushes himself to his feet with a groan. He was glad now that Rachel had already left because if anyone were to so much as look at him right now they’d know instantly that he was beaten pretty good.  


He shuffles through the halls leading to the rooms, carefully focusing on listening in for any of the other Titans. He didn’t want to go through all this work to appear fine only to be caught out by accidentally running into someone in the halls. He pauses, leaning against the wall and listening in carefully when he’s certain he heard a little shuffle around the corner. There it is again, closer this time.  


Nightwing barely has time to straighten himself before Jason turns the corner and almost walks right into him. The current Robin tenses, raising his fists defensively before he realizes just exactly who’s in front of him. A familiar cocky smile spreads across his face, head tilting up confidently to meet Nightwing’s masked gaze with vibrant green eyes. “What’s up, Nightwing?” His brow cocks, a silent question as to what he’s doing walking around the tower in uniform.  


“No suits at movie night.” He supplies as an answer, shrugging in a  _ what-can-you-do _ sort of fashion. Jason’s grin only widens. He steps out of the way and gestures for Nightwing to lead the way. Nightwing isn’t surprised when Jason saunters after him.  


“So, anybody beat you up on patrol?” Jason asks casually. Nightwing tenses for a second, thinking Jason’s figured him out, before relaxing when he realizes the boy is just throwing salt at him. Jason wasn’t very happy he was benched when Gar and Rachel were. Jason patrolled with Batman, afterall, but Nightwing didn’t trust him to patrol his own sector just yet. He was impulsive, violent, and ran into danger with a cocky confidence that would get him killed. Jason could be upset all he wanted, Nightwing wouldn’t be letting him out to take over a portion of the city on his own until he thought he was ready. Which likely wouldn’t be any time soon.  


“It was all clear.” Nightwing reports easily, turning the corner to make towards his room. It was merely feet away now and he was more than eager to have an excuse to collapse into bed for a couple minutes before he had to trudge back to the living room and pretend to be awake for their designated movie night.  


“Damn, I was hoping to have a target for training tomorrow.” Jason quips. Nightwing barely hides a grimace. Jason didn’t know but there were actually a hell of a lot of “targets” covering his body. Black and blue targets painted across his skin under layers of clothing. He’d have to work to keep his charges from hitting him where it hurt in training the next morning,  _ if _ he could keep his head on straight for a few hours. That was a really big if considering the state of it now. His vision was darkening around the edges and the pain from forcing his gait to its normal grace wasn’t helping much. What the hell was wrong with him? It was just a couple bruises.  


“Not like you could hit me anyway.” Nightwing smirks.  


Jason scoffs. Nightwing can feel the hard glare burning into the back of his head. “Wanna bet?” Nightwing can hear the forced joking tone, knows there’s fire just beneath the surface. He almost feels bad for Jason but he didn’t have it in him to try and cater to the boy’s temper.  


“You haven’t hit me yet.” Nightwing reminds him, stopping in front of his door and turning to raise a curious eyebrow at the other Robin.  


Jason sneered, glare hardening, but before he has the time to throw in a punch Nightwing is slipping into his room and shutting the door behind him. The lock clicks into place and he gracelessly stumbles over to his bed, collapsing onto the king sized mattress and relishing in the cold the black comforter washes him in. The AC was always on in his room but he had never been so grateful for it. The cold cooled the heat that his injuries sent pulsing through his veins and he barely had time to peel off the torso of his suit-- the fabric hanging around his waist-- before his vision whited out and his body went limp.  



	3. Movie Night

Nightwing startled awake, a gasp stuttering past his lips before he sucks in a wheezing breath. A hand slaps to his chest, pain flaring in his ribs, but then he realizes his hand isn’t gloved. That single realization slowly brings his brain from its hazy panic. His vision begins to focus on the familiar ceiling of his bedroom, his nerves push past the hot hurt running in his veins like lava and recognize the cool of his blankets pooled underneath him and the mask still firmly latched onto his face. He realizes, then, that his suit is only half-off. No one, as far as he’s aware of, had come by to get him for movie night but considering his internal clock was insisting he hadn’t been out long he didn’t figure anyone would have.

With a groan he pushes himself up into a sitting position, wiggling the bottom half of his suit off with lethargic movements and numb fingers. He kicks the Nightwing suit away and reaches up to peel the mask off his face and truly transform from nightly superhero to daytime crime-fighter.

Dick unsteadily pulls himself to his feet with the help of his nightstand, using the wall as support as he limps pathetically over to his dresser to get more comfortable clothes. The bruise on his thigh, though not fresh by any means, was only becoming a deeper, darker, and more painful blemish. Each step was another wave of torment but that didn’t keep him from moving forward and pulling a pair of sweats and a T-shirt from the dark drawers of his ebony dresser.

He finds himself sitting on the edge of his bed for a while, barely having slipped into his sweatpants before his bruised leg decided it couldn’t hold his weight anymore. He hadn’t figured it was that bad, but considering he’s been using it nonstop since he was injured it wasn’t too surprising. While he waits for his knees to stop feeling weak he carefully maneuvers a dark tee over his head, pulling it over his chest while he closed his eyes against the insistent pounding in his temples.

He had to admit, he was a lot worse off than he thought he was. The bruises ran deeper than level one tissue, his ribs were probably cracked and not bruised, and he was really starting to think he had a concussion.

That aside, he was still fine. A little more battered than he first suspected but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Before they all hit the sack he’d ice his bruises and check out his head, maybe even wrap his ribs. He could treat himself, it still wasn’t anything the others needed to know about. He didn’t want to be babied, didn’t want them to bench him and force him on monitor duty, and he certainly didn’t want to worry them.

Once the head rush simmered down he stood, once again using the nightstand as support in order to keep pressure off his leg for as long as he could manage. He trailed along the wall, limping along before he stopped in front of his door. He sucked in a long, careful breath and held it. His ribs twinged a little, but the ache died down when he release the air in his lungs slowly. He steeled himself, straightening his posture with a wince before unlocking the door and stepping back out into the hall.

He immediately misses the cold air of his room. Even if it hadn’t helped that much it still kept some of the bite of his wounds at bay. The warmth that seemed to filter through the rest of the tower only helped his injuries to heat his skin to an uncomfortable degree, body screaming in protest as he made his way back towards the common room to join the rest of the Titans for whatever movie the younger Titans had decided to put on.

The hallways seem to go on forever and Dick begins to wonder if he’s lost himself in a labyrinth when he spots the living room at the end of the hall. Everything is illuminated by the orange glow of the fire and Dick remembers that not even twenty minutes earlier he had appreciated the warmth it had tossed over him. Now, however, he dreaded getting closer.

He enters despite his minds complaints, rolling his eyes when Hank let’s out a gruff greeting of “Thought you got lost, bird boy.”

Dick doesn’t bother trying to mention that he did too, for a moment there.

Instead he makes his way across the room and up to the platform housing their couches with a confident stride that makes his entire body white out in torture. It may hurt but he’s forever grateful when he flops down onto the long couch between Rachel and Jason. He aches die down to a more tolerable level now that he’s not moving so much. He shoots Dawn and Donna a grin in greeting from where they sit across from him. Donna is comfortable sitting alone on a chair while Dawn and Hank cuddle on the other couch. Dick can’t help but roll his eyes at Gar’s faux gagging from where he sits on the other side of Rachel.

“So, Kori?” He asks.

“Off with that guy, whatever the fuck his name is, from her home planet.” Hank explains, wrapping his arms around Dawn’s waist and pulling her closer to him. The man smiles at his partner’s gentle giggles, hooking his chin over her shoulder with a look of complete adoration.

“Faddei?” Rachel questions knowingly, “You think he’s gonna steal something again?” Dick knows she’s pushing his buttons, or at least trying too, but Kori and him weren’t together and Kori could be with whoever she pleased. Even if that wasn’t him.

“She said she taught him basic human culture.” Donna explains but there’s a smirk pulling at her lips that tells Dick she wants to push his buttons too. “Maybe instead he’ll buy her something really nice, take her out to dinner. Court her a little.” Alright. That one stung a little.

“Movie.” Dawn breaks in, graciously saving Dick from the torture his team was trying to commit. “What are we watching this time, guys?” She asks, leaning forward easily and snatching the remote from its place on the glass coffee table, trusting Hank not to let her fall.

“Netflix made this animated version of White Fang,” Gar starts, throwing his arm over the back of the couch and subtly around Rachel’s shoulders. Dick’s lips twitch up at the action.

“Looks cool,” Jason pipes up, “Dog fights and stuff.” He adds, that smirk that always seems to be there easily splitting his features.

“I’ve read it.” Dick and Donna state in almost perfect unison, shooting each other amused looks as Dawn flicks on the TV above the fireplace and works to sign into the Netflix account. It wasn’t a common occurrence but every once in a while they’d say something together or have the same thought-- same instincts-- and they chalk it up to their close relationship and practically spending their childhoods together. Like close siblings or best friends, just something that happens. It had been odd at first but ever since they started living together again it happened a little more often than it’d used to. 

“This one?” Dawn asks, drawing Dick’s attention back to the TV screen. White Fang, huh? He hadn’t read the book in a while and it had been a good read so he didn’t think he’d be bored, thankfully. The last thing he wanted was to fall asleep-- or pass out-- during the movie. That’d only set off more red flags he couldn’t afford.

“That’s it.” Rachel confirms, leaning back into the couch and subtly closer to Gar. Dick resists the urge to let out a snort of amusement when the green-haired boy’s face practically lit up. The two of them were close but so far Dick hadn’t seen anything more between them, Garfield was definitely a touchy person though. Sometimes Dick wondered if it was the animal in him because the boy just couldn’t get enough of physical attention.

“You kids better pick something good next week,” Hank grumbles, grunting when Dawn shushed him playfully. “Like John Wick or somethin’.”

“Aw, man, we should totally watch Wick.” Jason agreed. Dick wasn’t surprised the second Robin liked action films. Hell, Dick was pretty sure he only wanted to watch this movie for the animal violence. Gar probably hadn’t read White Fang, instead the kid had probably seen the wolf and decided he liked the synopsis enough to want to watch it. Rachel, on the other hand, had probably read the book. She seemed like she liked to read.

“Next week.” Dick assures, nodding towards the TV in silent order of silence. Jason, though reluctantly, complied.

****____________****

They were only to the explanation of the fight ring when an alarm rang, the TV screen flashes to a red alert message. The Titans were up and off the couch quick, too focused on the alert screen to realize how Dick had struggled for a moment to sit up.

“Suit up,” He orders curtly, running off down the hall to go collect his own suit despite how it hurt. His city needed him and injured or not he would be there to save it. The adrenaline now pumping through his veins was working wonders on helping him push past the pain, though, thankfully.

He practically skids into his room, scooping up his suit and stripping at record speed. It was something he’d literally been trained to do, being able to get into you suit fast enough to stop the problem was mandatory. Lives were on the line, you can’t take that lightly.

He’s out of his comfortable clothes and back into his Nightwing suit in record time, wishing he’d had more time to just relax and get out of his second skin but he knew better than most that crime waited for no one. Especially not the heroes.

Unsurprisingly he’s the first to the monitor, his room is closest afterall and he had been the first to bolt from the commons. He easily slides into the desk chair, fingers flying across the keyboard to open and categorize the alert and the crime currently being committed.

Robin comes running in moments later, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was too eager, to excited to go out and fight. He shouldn’t be, he was gonna get hurt treating this all like it was a game-- acting like he was invincible. Nightwing would have to keep an eye on him.

“So, what’s the latest scum doing?” The boy asks as the rest of the team comes running in, not far behind the bats.

“We have a line of chain robberies. Three different banks are being hit in unison, large group of heavily armed robbers are stationed at each bank,” Nightwing starts, clicking a few buttons on the keyboard and pulling up security from streetlight cameras. Each bank was pretty much the same, a few vans full of people would pull up and rush in with assault rifles. There were never any hostages it seemed, civilians flooding out of the doors after the assailants had ran in. Their masks were simple, basic, thrown together. Each handful of people had something different covering their features, some ski masks and some Halloween masks. Either way, their faces were covered. “Best guess is they were planning to spread the police force too thin to stop them, robbing multiple places at the same time with heavy fire power. We’ll need three teams to make sure no one gets away.” He instructs expertly, standing and moving through the halls.

The rest of the Titans follow after him dutifully, waiting his orders and team assignments. Nightwing sometimes wondered if he deserves the unquestioned loyalty these people confided in him. Times like these, though, he didn’t have time to question it.

“Robin, Beast Boy, you’re with me. Wonder Girl and Raven will take 575 Market while Dove and Hawk handle 333 Bush. Understood?” Nightwing ordered, stopping in front of the elevator to turn back to his team. He was met with a round of affirmatives and a single curt nods sets them all into motion.

Nightwing himself walks back across the common room, Robin and Beast Boy on his heels, and moves towards the balcony he’d entered through mere hours earlier. “You remember how to transform into a bird, Beasty?” Robin snarked, already unlatching his grappling gun from his belt.

“Duh.” Beast Boy scoffs, “You remember how to shoot that thing, Birdy?” He fires back.

“No shit.” Robin answers as Nightwing swings open the balcony doors and vaults over the railing, following after the older hero with practiced ease. 

It isn’t long before the caw of a hawk is heard, cutting through the cold night air.


	4. The Masked

Nightwing made quick work of the rooftops, thanking whatever Gods really existed that adrenaline was such a powerful thing because he knew that without it he would have collapsed long ago. He can hear Robin behind him, keeping up with relative ease, and the occasional cry of a hawk above assured him that Beast Boy wasn’t far behind. That was good. He was confident that he could trust Beast Boy to make more calculated decisions once they got there but he still knew he’d have to keep one eye on Robin. He told himself that he could handle the multitasking, _of course I can I do it all the time_, but logically he knew that even without the concussion he’d need to put more focus on himself.

That would be a problem for later, he decides, the second they land on the roof positioned across the street from their destination. The bank’s alarms were blaring, red lights flashing inside and lighting the streets from the windows.

Robin lands beside him, crouching low and narrowing his masked eyes at the bank. They’d yet to see any sign of the robbers and the teenager moved to swing onto the roof before Nightwing placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Wait,” He huffs, voice low and commanding.

“Why?” Robin turned his glare onto Nightwing, questioning and harsh. Robin impatience was another aspect that would inevitably get him hurt. Something else Nightwing needed to try and correct before something happened. Something else Batman expected of him.

“We can’t just go rushing in,” Nightwing insists, gaze flicking to the side to glimpse the forest colored hawk that landed strongly on the ledge of the roof. “We don’t know anything and without information we can get ourselves,” Robin is already moving his mouth, prepared to spew a defense of __“I can handle myself” __and likely a few curse words for the heck of it, “or __others__ hurt or worse.” Nightwing pressed, plowing through Robin’s attempted interruption without care.

Robin rolls his eyes again but backs down. Nightwing can only tell now thanks to the movement of the top of his mask, thanks to the lenses covering the boy’s eyes similar to his own. Robin was disgruntled but tamed for now. In the end, that’s all Nightwing could ask of him.

With a soft nod in the boy’s direction Nightwing raised two fingers to the side of his mask and presses a distinct plate that sets his lenses alight with blue-tinted light. His now glowing gaze easily picks up the heat signatures of the robbers into the building, alerting him if they were armed and just how many there were. Unsurprisingly each assailant was armed, a automatic rifle situated in each of their hands, but the head count was more than he had initially expected. According to the masks counter, which he double checked with his own careful eyes, there was a total of thirty armed men inside. There were ten inside the vaults, shoveling their prize into duffel bags, eight positioned at the exits and entrances in pairs of two leading to a total of four guarded doors. The last twelve were simply standing around the bank, still and waiting for their partners in crime to finish up the job.

“Thirty,” Robin reports, obviously using the same mode on his own mask. Beast Boy startles, cawing as his feathers raised an ruffled. They still hadn’t figured out how to keep Gar’s clothes intact-- if they could manage to do so at all-- so it was best the boy remain in animal form during missions. That didn’t stop him from changing species though. “Heavily armed. All entrances are guarded, vault is being raided as we speak.” The teen reported like he didn’t know Nightwing didn’t already know. Nightwing didn’t know if he was doing to prove himself to the older bird but he was proud anyway that he was relaying the situation for Beast Boy.

Nightwing nods curtly, ignoring how it makes his head swim, and stands. He grabs his grapple again and listens as Robin follows his lead, “They’re carrying Ak-101s at very least, don’t give them the chance to aim at you much less shoot.” He turns to shoot Beast Boy a look, “Pick something fast __and__ strong. We’ll need you and we can’t risk anyone getting compromised.” The bird cocked it’s head, eyes bright, and nods seriously with a low trill. With that, Nightwing fired off a line and easily swung across the expanse of the street to land silently a top the roof of the bank.

Nightwing swiftly reels in his line and holsters his tool, unsheathing his escrima sticks he nods to Robin to pry away the grate for the ceiling ducts. He hears the telltale crunch of Beast Boy’s bones shifting-- muscles tearing, body piecing itself back together as it’s very DNA changed-- and turns his head just enough to see the dark hawk morph into a dusty olive cheetah. Fast, sharp, efficient. Good, that was good.

Robin lets out a low whistle and Nightwing directs his gaze back to him, taking the lead and entering the vents first. Beast Boy’s claws clack lightly against the metal of the ducts, breathing deep wispy growls that were sure to spook the criminals below them. The echoing of the vents would keep them all from people able to pinpoint their location and maybe the threatening noises would psych out some of their enemies, give his team a chance to make them fumble. They could use that.

That in mind he crawls down the shaft silently, Robin shuffling behind him and Beast Boy taking up the rear as they followed Nightwing fearlessly to battle. He was proud of his charges, proud of the heroes they were becoming, and he was prepared to keep them safe if he needed to.

They come to an open, a grate that will easily land them in the center of the main room, and Nightwing turns his head to look at his two partners. He receives two nods, prepared and perhaps even eager. That’s all the cue he needs, kicking out the grate with a loud bang that makes each and every man below them jump as them all fall through the opening one by one. Robin and Nightwing land side-by-side, escrima sticks and bo staffs drawn. Beast Boy lands behind let, letting out a loud yowl that makes a few of the criminals scream in fear.

Smirking, Nightwing charges forward and slams the butt of one of his weapons into the throat of one criminal. He falls quickly, gasping and choking, but Nightwing is already onto his next target. He moves with a grace that not one of his other teammates possesses, attacking with fluid movements born from being raised to move with such ease. He was bred for this, bred to dance and fly through the air better than any other being dare. Getting rid of Robin, no matter how painful the detachment had been, had restored a lot of the grace Dick had lost after he’d lost himself in the costume. Nightwing was more of what Robin had first been. Nightwing was a beacon, fighting not to maim but to take down the bad and make sure they __stay down__. He roundhouse kicked guns from nervous hands, slammed his weapons of choice into the soft underbellies of the masked baddies with a momentum that came only from soaring through the air after using one of these men as a springboard.

Nightwing moved more like an acrobat than a superhero but he sure as hell did some damage.

He landed in the center of three downed men, each groaning in agony and writhing at his feet, but he doesn’t take even a moment to admire his work. He whips around, spotting a man raising his gun towards a green wild cat, and lunges. He tackles the man around the waist and slams him into the wall, grabbing the lapel of his jacket before falling back. He drags the man with him, his back hitting the floor gently as he lifts his legs and yanks the man into a powerful two-footed kick that sends him flying back into the wall with a deadly crack. Nightwing pushes himself into a backwards roll and to his feet, ready to again surge forward and throw himself back into the fray, but his head spins and he stumbles.

He’s against the wall, shoulder leaning heavily into the concrete in order to keep him up and on his feet. His vision is swimming and no amount of blinking is clearing his head. Damn it. Now’s not the time to crash.

He shakes his head and immediately decides that was a terrible idea. __Fuck__…he finds that that’s the only thought going through his head now. He takes a deep breath and his ribs scream, he thinks he tastes blood at the back of his throat and he’s cursing violently in his head because he can’t have an adrenaline crash on top of all of this.

He was in the middle of a battle. Two teens, one reckless and one new to the scene, were the only people fighting beside him. That couldn’t end well if he didn’t get his shit together.

With a grunt, Nightwing stumbled away from the wall, forcing himself to move back out through sheer force of will. Thankfully, for now, that seems to be enough.

His vision clears enough that it’s easy t throw himself back into the fight and with that fight comes more adrenaline that helps to once more numb the pain. They’re talking out the enemy with a speed that only the flash could manage alone, Robin is violent and cruel and it makes Nightwing’s heart ache knowing he and Jason had fought once with the same brutality but Beast Boy only does what he needs to take them down and that lightens the burden some.

It’s not long before the battle is done. Robin is calling in the police department on Nightwing’s strict order much to his chagrin and Beast Boy has a strange feline smile pulling at his furry lips. It was a swift victory, a nice easy win that he figures the team really needed, but he feels an exhaustion so bone deep that he wants to collapse.

“Alright, done, let’s go.” Robin growls, obviously annoyed at the fact they were working with the force. Robin’s disdain for police didn’t end at the GCPD. In fact, Nightwing was almost certain the only cop the boy __didn’t __ hate was himself and maybe- just maybe- Jim Gordon on a good day.

Nightwing nods and he hopes it’s not as lethargic as he feels it is. Not that Robin is taking the time to notice, kicking up the doors leading to the street and easily grappling up to the rooftop they’d landed on probably forty minutes or so earlier. Beast Boy seems to send him an odd look, though. It’s calculating and curious and if it wasn’t Beast Boy Nightwing think it would look predatory.

Thankfully, he looks like he was about to leave it alone, and that is enough for Nightwing to move to walk towards his side. He takes one step, however, and promptly falls to his knees. He figures the brunt impact should be painful but it’s not his knees that hurt when he hits the floor. No, it’s his thigh, his stomach, his side, his ribs. It’s white hot and all encompassing and the fire seems to pile behind his eyes and at the back of his head, his temples pounding in time with his wild heart.


	5. Brother-figure

Robin was already across the street, bouncing on the balls of his feet on the rooftop they’d paused to assess the situation on, waiting for the others when he hears a loud yowl. It’s Beast Boy, that much is obvious, and for a moment Robin snickers to himself wondering what kind of trouble the green guy had gotten himself into. The yowl sounds again as he saunters to the ledge of the roof to watch with signature smirk in place. The forest-colored cheetah stands in the doorway but doesn’t move to shift or even move towards the building Robin himself stands on, his ears are pressed against his skull and his wild eyes are bright with worry. Alarm bells ring in his head when he realizes Beast Boy isn’t in trouble but he’s still calling for help.

The gravity has nothing to do with how his stomach drops as he swings back down to the street, the streetlights illuminating his costume in a dingy orange glow that only succeeds to make his stomach churn more. It feels like scarecrow, somehow, and Robin furiously shoves down the spark of fear that ignites in him. He runs through the open doors of the bank, not a thought in his head about how the Police are coming or how civilians could see. The only thought in his head is _where the fuck is Nightwing?_

The second he skids through the door his question is answered.

He almost wishes it wasn’t.

He didn’t even remotely try to hide his admiration for the first Robin. Never had. The first time they’d met he’d expressed his excitement about working side-by-side with him. He still didn’t know much about what happened between Dick and Bruce, or about his adopted brother’s upbringing, but he knew that even though the two were having some sort of stupid spat Dick still gave Jason his all. Dick was an idiot like that. The admiration and desire to prove himself to the first Robin- to _Nightwing_\- never wavering.

Now, looking on at Nightwing’s formed collapsed and far too still, sprawled out on the titled floors, Robin isn’t Robin. He’s Jason. And He’s _angry._

“What. The. _Fuck_!” He snarls, sliding to his knees next to Nightwing’s body, reaching forward on instinct to check the man’s pulse. That was the first step. See if they were even worth trying to save. It was drilled into him since he started training those few years back, always make sure you weren’t trying to protect a corpse.

He couldn’t have been more glad when he felt the pulse, quick and uneven, beneath his gloved fingertips, but the anger in his chest only exploded into a raging inferno. He whipped his head around, aiming a patented batglare in Beast Boy’s direction. The wildcat mewled pathetically, but Jason couldn’t even begin to try and give a damn about the other boy’s feelings, “What the fuck are you standing around for? Huh? Change back and call the others,” Robin ripped out his comm unit and threw it to the cat’s feet. Beast Boy looks between the unit and Robin, feline face pulled into a look of clueless desperation, but Robin just sneers. “Do it! C’mon man, _please_, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with him.” Jason can feel himself slipping, the anger isn’t successfully covering up the turmoil he’s trying to push away, and his glare is slipping too. His eyes burn and he’s never been more grateful for the new mask lenses.

Beast Boy nods and the sounds of bones snapping begins to echo in the cold, empty bank. Robin turns around, uncaring of the other Titans transformation as he pushes himself up to lean over Nightwing’s chest. He starts there, prodding with barely practised fingers at his ribs. His eyes widen when he feels give, Nightwing’s fourth and fifth ribs- right cage, between those two bones lays Nightwing’s sluggish, beating heart- bending beneath the gently pressure. Fuck. Oh, fuck. He pushes the flare oh concern under the blanket of anger already struggling to hide away all of his other emotions and continues. He continues down, moving towards the older man’s navel to push at his organs. A few cracked ribs wouldn’t knock him out. It couldn’t be the only injury. It _couldn’t_, __that made no sense. He’s halfway through his inspection of Nightwing’s abdomen when it occurs to him he should check the guy’s head. Head injuries were the most common reasons for unconsciousness in their line of work.

The cracking in the background stops. He hears Beast Boy panting. Then the green-haired teen starts speaking, “Rae! Please tell me you’ve wrapped up your robbery?”

Robin can’t hear Raven’s response. He can only hear the urgency in Beast Boy’s. The worry and panic, the panic that really runs home the fact that the Titans may not be the _Teen _Titans anymore but there were still inexperienced kids in their ranks. Robin wonders vaguely in the back of his head if Beast Boy had ever seen Nightwing taken out like this. Hell, Robin’s pretty sure he’s never seen the guy down for the count like this.

He feels a tenderness under his fingers, not far below the ribcage. The upper-right side of Nightwing’s abdomen. _Fuck_.

“The police should be getting here soon, I think, and Nightwing’s down. There’s no blood, nothing, he just collapsed after we took everyone down.” Beast Boy is explaining. Robin shifts, shuffling forward to press nimble fingers around Nightwing’s skull. He still hadn’t found anything that should have the guy out cold like this. Nothing. He’s worried, no denying it, about the injuries he’d found so far, though. As far as he knew, no one had even landed a grazing hit on Nightwing during this fight. The first question that slipped from his lips since this whole thing exploded in his face- _What the fuck_\- ran unending through his head.

The nausea rolling in his stomach slammed into him full forced when he felt a sizeable gash on the back of Nightwing’s head. “Goddammit!” He screamed, slamming a clenched fist into the hard floor beside Nightwing’s head. Nightwing’s _injured _head. Shit. When the hell did this happen? Why the hell didn’t his dipshit of a brother-figure _say _anything.

“Robin’s checking on Nightwing,” Beast Boy’s voice trembles. Robin realizes Raven must’ve asked what was wrong. “I don’t think he likes what he found. You need to get here. You’re just down the street. Please hurry.”

They needed to get out of here yesterday. Robin could here the police sirens. They couldn’t get Nightwing out like this, alone, unless Beast Boy learned how to switch forms much quicker all of a sudden. He thinks, maybe, he can Nightwing to the rooftop he’d been hopping back and forth from. Swiftly, Robin heaves up Nightwing’s torso, swinging the unconscious man’s arm around his shoulders, and begins dragging him towards the still open doors.

He listens as Beast Boy transforms again behind him, grits his teeth when a green wolf shimmies itself under Nightwing’s limp hand and helps Robin move their limp teammate down the stairs so Robin can grapple both himself and his brother up to the rooftop.

They could hide here, Robin thinks as he drags Nightwing across the rooftop and away from the ledge so they’d be harder to spot. He nods as a green Falcon lands beside him, nuzzling up close to Nightwing’s body. Raven and Wonder Girl better hurry. Robin was pretty sure Nightwing had ruptured something, his ribs cracked and maybe broken, a definite concussion that sent Nightwing to the ground.

Nightwing needed medical attention and he needed it now.

Robin wasn’t stupid, even before he was Robin he was a street rat. A street rat knows how to stop injuries. Nightwing’s weren’t knew.

He didn’t know exactly how long Nightwing had been like this. He didn’t know exactly how long Nightwing had left.


	6. Internal Chill

Nightwing feels cold. Not like the simple _oh, brr, it’s chilly out_ cold but more like _oh, fuck, Mr. Freeze shot me and I’m freezing from the inside out_ kind of cold. He had this internal chill that was sending shudders down his spine, his fingers numb and clumsy and his feet just as dead. He wonders if anyone is near by to torture with his cold feet, sharing his internal cold with someone else just because he tended not to do anything alone for too long. He was a people person, ya know? No matter… no matter… he’s had this same thought process in the last few days, hadn’t he? No, earlier. That very day, right?

His head was so fuzzy, filled with cotton that threatened to spill out his ears and deafen him. His mind was the only part of him that wasn’t freezing over. In fact, it felt far too warm. It was like the rest of his body was dipped beneath the freezing waters of Gotham harbor but his head was poking out to watch some inferno go up above the surface. His brain was halting, stuttering, jumping from thought to thought in feverish confusion.

His body finally recognizes the hard, cold surface pressed uncomfortably into his back. The cold seeping in from the floor matching his internal cold with a external cold that made his skin crawl and body tremble. So cold.

But something else was wrapped around his head, pillowing it and rising and falling gently with gentle breaths… breaths. Something breathed beneath his skull…

He pries his eyes open, realizing for the first time that it was far too dark for his eyes to be open, and squints at the barely visible stars twinkling in the San Francisco sky. When did he get outside? He remembered a blurry movie night, unfocused in his mind and details smudged but certainly real all the same. What happened? His breathing hitches- __pain, pain, no, it hurts__\- and his fingers twitch in mild anticipation. He wants to get up, push himself up to figure what was going on and if there was a danger he didn’t remember.

The last time he’d woken up so delirious and incoherent he’d had a terrible run-in with Poison Ivy and her pollen. If he remembers correctly they’d only taken her down a few months ago…

__Payback?__ His mind supplies uncertainly, hesitantly to draw any conclusions seeing as he already knows for a fact he’s concussed.

His eyes snap open the rest of the way and he inhales sharply--

A sharp cry leaves his lips, his breath leaving his lungs as agony ripples up his side. His ribs are crying out, hot torture rippling along his chest as his broken ribs reacted to the sharp move of his breathing.

“Nightwing!” Jason! Jason was here, why was Jason here? He struggled to remember what he was doing last. It couldn’t have been movie night. He wouldn’t be outside. He has a sneaking suspicion, however, that his injuries had caught up to him and he wasn’t alone to hide them away like he had been before. A swirl of guilt makes his stomach drop as the pain dulls to an acute throbbing. His side still hurts like he’d been running for a lifetime but it’s his chest that hurts the most now. He figures, maybe, he should have wrapped his tended to his wounds at some point after he’d gotten them. So much had been going on with the Titans that he just hadn’t had the time, never left alone long enough to treat his hidden injuries without risk of getting caught. Perhaps if he’d wrapped his ribs at very least he would be in this compromising situation.

Eyes now open he takes in his surroundings. It’s a familiar rooftop, across from a bank on Market. Had something happened there? The pain had sharpened his mind only slightly, still, nothing made sense. He was so lost, swimming through an ocean of dark sludge in desperate attempt to regain an understanding of what happened. There are sirens below them, shrieking down on the streets- in front of the bank he remembers- and that’s enough for him to confirm something had happened there.

A mission. He’d gone on a mission with at minimum Jason, likely a robbery at the bank below him. His fighting style combined with cracked ribs was a terrible idea, especially when left untreated, and flipping around with a concussion isn’t a good idea either. That was most likely what took him down. The adrenaline had probably been the only thing keeping him up during the fight. That, and a fierce determination to keep Jason safe.

There’s a soft growl that draws him from his thoughts. Jason his on his knees beside him, hands hovering uncertainly and a look a simultaneous concern and fury on his scrunched face. He tilts his head up, pressed into the soft stomach of the mint green wolf his head was pillow on. Oh.

Another growl slips into a soft whine and suddenly there is a wet nose pressing against Nightwing’s forehead and __god__ it feels so good against his overheated skin he can’t stop himself from leaning into it. It was unfair how cold he was- __so so cold__\- while his brain cooked in his skull.

“Nightwing, hey, look at me.” Jason pleads. His tone is demanding and sharp but Nightwing’s become too used to Jason to fall for it. He knows Jason is really, truly angry but he knows that he’s more freaked out than anything right now. He feels bad, for that, he thinks.

He rolls his head around, raising a lethargic arm. It doesn’t move like it should, though. He tries to move it towards his face but it only makes it halfway before falling pathetically against his chest. It hurts, rattling his broken chest, and Nightwing coughs weakly. That only hurts more but luckily only forces a wheezing grunt past his lips. He meets Jason’s- __Robin’s__\- masked gaze with his own. Jas- Robin’s face is screwed up, eyes squinted with furrowed brows that depict his panic perfectly. Nightwing knows his face is blank, curious more than anything.

“What the hell is wrong with you, man?” Robin sneers, voice low and dangerous. “Hiding this kind of shit? You’re a fucking hypocrite!”

Nightwing’s brows furrow. Had he ever told them not to hide this kind of thing before?

“Yes, you have, asshole.” Robin huffs.

He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“You did.”

Guess his brain to mouth filter was a little broken.

Robin snorts, one hand hesitantly lowering to rest on Nightwing’s shoulder. “Ya think?” He muses. Nightwing’s glad he’s amused, even if it’s at his expense, because he doesn’t like seeing Jason worried. Jason was strong. A force to be reckoned with. He didn’t want to be the thing that stopped the force of nature that was Jason Todd even if he was honored to have the boy’s passion and care. “Damn right I am.” Robin mutters. He’s concerned again. Nightwing wonders how much of that he’d said out loud this time.

Garfield, because he’s here too how had he already forgotten, noses Nightwing’s hair. Nightwing gladly trolls his head back around, letting Gar lick his forehead a couple times before resting his wonderfully cold nose against Nightwing’s heated cheek. The chilled night air makes the wet spot feel like ice packs. Nightwing sighs at the relief it brings.

“Why’s it so cold?” Nightwing murmurs, straining his eyes to look at Robin in his peripheral.

“Cold season.” Robin supplies like Nightwing doesn’t already know. “You’re hurt pretty bad, ‘Wing. I don’t know what’s going on with you, or why you feel like you’re freezing your ass off or whatever. All I know is that you were a fucking idiot who’s run himself to fever and now we’re waiting for Wonder Girl and Raven to show up to help us get your ass back to the tower.”

Oh. So he did have a fever. That made some things a little more understandable.

The wolf- Arctic, Nightwing recognizes. Thicker fur, layered with two coats. Meant for warmth and comfort. How sweet of Gar- huffs an obviously amused breath and nuzzles his cold nose further into Nightwing’s skin.

“Of course that’s all you’d get from that.” Robin deadpans, unimpressed.


	7. Friend or Foe

Nightwing startles when he hears the crunch of gravel underfoot, eyes snapping open. He’d only drifted off for a couple minutes, burying his face in Beast Boy’s fur to keep the boys from worrying. He was fine. He’d just wanted to rest his eyes. They’d felt heavy and dry. That’s all.

He hadn’t been prepared for someone else to show up though. He hadn’t even considered it a possibility they’d be found out on top of the roof. That was stupid. He was supposed to be ahead of his game- ahead of __the__ game- always smart enough to keep everyone out of the brunt of danger. Be the leader. That’s what a bat was supposed to do. Push themselves past their best, be what people thought impossible.

The weight of that failure now hung over his head as he heard Beast Boy yelp, surprised by Nightwing’s sudden jerk- or by the fact Nightwing had startled at all- but that was better for him anyway. Beast Boy instinctively shifted, canine instincts taking over to try and push him away from the source of his shock, and giving Nightwing enough room to reach into his belt and withdraw a razor-sharp batarang.

“’Wing, wait-”

But Robin’s shout registers too late, Nightwing is already shoving himself up onto his elbows and chucking the projectile with model accuracy despite how his head spun without being propped up. The only thing he’d had to go off of was sound, the light shift of tiny rocks and a sharp inhale when he’d moved. Sound, however, was more than enough to locate a target.

There’s a shrill _clang _as Nightwing’s arms give out and he falls back against Beast Boy with an almost silent groan. The bruises running along his chest didn’t appreciate the movement and his broken ribs were shrieking beneath his skin, demanding he stop and forcing what little air he had from his lungs. His eyes adjust relatively quick as he blinks away the blurriness with weighted lids. He grimaces when he spots Wonder Girl and Raven, Wonder Girl’s arm raised in front of Raven’s face to protect her from Nightwing’s attack.

He’s slow to make the connection at first, sluggishly swimming through his hazy thoughts to find the realization.

He’d just thrown a weapon at Raven’s face.

If Wonder Girl wasn’t there to block with her bracer…

Nightwing likes to think Raven’s powers would have kicked in but looking at her now- eyes blown wide, mouth opened ever so slightly in shock, body sagging from the exhaustion of a fight- he doesn’t know if that was right or not.

“Sorry,” He winces, cringing back and doing his best to relax against Beast Boy when the tension made his injuries cry out again.

“What the fuck,” He hears Robin curse softly behind him. He knows it’s not from the attack, Jason would have likely done the same. They had the same training, for the most part, after all. He listens as Robin moves closer, letting himself calm knowing he was surrounded by friends and not enemies. Robin hand brushes his forehead- his hand is bare, glove abandoned- and Nightwing tilts his head towards the touch unconsciously. Another string of curses leaves Robin’s lips and Nightwing frowns listening, “Don’t even fucking try right now.” Robin scolds and Nightwing’s frown deepens but he keeps from releasing any concerned noises if only barely. He was worried, admittedly, but it was more about Jason than it was about himself. He could handle himself but something was obviously upsetting his adopted brother, enough so that he was expressing it and not burying it under layers of anger and snark.

“_You’re_ the one worrying _me _this time, Dickwing.” Robin mocks, words cruel on his tongue, but Nightwing knows better. He’s come to know a lot about Jason. He likes it that way.

Wait-

Was he saying things out loud again?

He hears a snort, amused, but when he looks towards it he spots Wonder Girl’s frustrated expression. There’s no amusement on her face. He wonders, in the back of his mind, why exactly she’s frustrated. Maybe he can help. She’s helped him enough and he was good at helping people, or so he’s been told. He likes to think he is.

“You are.” His gaze flicks over to Raven. She’s composed herself now, the shock and traces of fear gone from her face. She still looks tired. He’d have to ask for a report later. He wants to apologize, he could have hurt her. Her face softens and he hopes that an apology had left his numb lips this time, even if unknown to him. He was learning how to use this broken filter to his benefit. “You’ve helped all of us already, Dick.”

“No names in costume.” He mumbles. Moving his lips consciously feels odd, like he’s a puppeteer and not a person. He’s heard stories before about dissociation, about feeling like you’re watching yourself continue on and out of body experiences. He thinks he’s between those two states, his consciousness pushed deeper into the recesses of his mind instead of out of his body entirely. He feels numb everywhere besides where his cuts and bruises and broken bones are lighting him up like a bondfire. Everything is a chore, moving, blinking, breathing. It all takes so much effort now. He’s dizzy even though he’s laying down. He closes his eyes to stop the spinning.

“You’ve helped us all, _Nightwing_.” Wonder Girl insists with a scoff. He listens as she walks closer.

“He’s on fire.” Robin reports in a snarl. Nightwing huffs a soft breath, as close to a laugh as he can get without causing too much agony. No kidding. He was burning alive.

“How much do you know?” Wonder Girl asks. Nightwing feels cold fingers in his hair. He shivers at first under the cold touch but relaxes into it’s familiarity. Raven, ever the artist, liked to play with appearance. There were a lot of times when the others wouldn’t let her or didn’t have time to let her play with their hair and she’d come to him. She knew he had a hard time denying her things that made her happy. She often used it to her advantage. She’s still, however, yet to convince him to dye his hair. 

“Broken ribs, laceration on the back of the head and almost certain concussion, and I think maybe he’s ruptured something. I’d say his liver, I think, it’s too tender and most likely bruised under the suit.” Robin reports sternly, he’s stiff, flippant, and furious. It’s a familiar mood to Nightwing, a tone that Jason had constructed just for him so that he’d know when Jason was really truly mad at him. He wants to ask what he did but his body is too tired to even ask things without his permission anymore. He struggles to remember the last time he’d felt like this. He struggles to remember the last week in general.

“He’s crashing,” Donna sounds angry now too. Donna? Donna… he doesn’t think he should be calling her that right now. His eyes are too heavy to open, it hurts too much to move. Why are they mad?

He hears an animal whine, feels himself shifting and hears himself groan. Gar’s scared, he thinks. He wants to reach out to comfort him but even the thought of trying makes his arms ache.

“Raven, do you think you have the strength to get us back to the tower?” Donna asked. Nightwing feels an arm circle around his shoulders and pull him up. There’s a strangled whine that’s forced from his throat as his abdomen ignites.

“Yeah, yeah, definitely.” Rachel doesn’t sound too sure. He wants to tell her not to push herself but before he even gets the chance there’s another arm hooking under his knees and then he moving, shifting, and his body explodes and he swears he screams but he doesn’t have time to acknowledge anything let alone anything his body is doing before the cold oblivion is swallowing him whole and gifting him a reprieve from all the torture.


	8. Drowning on Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to explain away where Conner is at during this so we're gonna go and say he's bonding with Superman or something until I figure out how I want to try and write him in if at all.

Robin watches as Raven opens a portal, the dark inky liquid that was her powers swirling into a vortex that shone with violet light. He’s pretty sure she’s about to collapse, it didn’t look like they had much time to travel. He scoffs and turns his gaze to Wonder Girl as she pushes herself off her knees with Nightwing hanging limply in her arms, what little of his consciousness he’d managed to hold onto slipped through his fingers, clearly, because he was out cold. Robin would forever deny how his stomach churned at the thought.

“Come on.” Wonder Girl orders, watching as Beast Boy scrambled onto heavy paws. Robin was already moving towards the portal, his stride long and urgent, but he tried to pass it off with a forced push of his usual confidence. He almost trips, barely managing to keep himself from falling face first into Raven’s magic, and decides walking like he’s scared is better than face-planting. Learn to pick your battles, he thinks Nightwing- Dick- would say affection seeping into his voice.

He glad he’s already through the portal before Wonder Girl can call him out.

The commons materialize in front of him, Hank and Dawn are already lounging on the couch out of costume. He watches as they look up, stepping numbly to the side as the portal warbled in warning. Dawn looks concerned, brows pulling together and soft lips tilting down into a delicate frown that made her usually gently face twist with hesitant worry. Robin knows why. Raven was supposed to be with Wonder Girl, not with Robin. They weren’t supposed to meet up. Something was obviously wrong, right?

He’s too numb to do anything but stare right back at the pair, Hank’s gaze is wary and calculating. He’s looks angry. He always looks angry when Robin’s around.

The portal warbles again and Beast Boy comes through, trotting along the floor with clicks on his sharp claws. The mint wolf moved quickly to the raised platform the couches sat on, grabbing his discarded clothes in his mouth and moving into the kitchen to transform back and get dressed. Robin listens as the sounds of shifting bones and tearing muscles fills the air. It’s white noise now, vaguely registering in his mind.

“Robin..?” Dawn tries softly. She’s always so soft. So kind. So unlike Hank. Maybe that’s why they work. Dawn tries to hide her disdain for him and Hank wears it on his sleeve.

The vortex beside him trills, flickering, and Robin swears to God if Raven can’t keep that damn thing open long enough for his __injured brother__\- __dying, he might be dying,__ his mind supplies cruelly but he pushes it away- to get back he’s gonna destroy her the next time they have to train. He doesn’t give a fuck if she loses her shit, if her powers rampage, he won’t let her get away with it.

“What the hell is wrong with you, kid?” Hank presses, voice gruff. Robin can see the truth, the worry seeping into his own eyes, but the harsh tone sets him off.

Robin reaches up and rips the domino mask from his face with a snarl leaving a furious Jason in his place. He’s screaming inside, shrieking over the fact that someone else close to him is inching closer to the brink of death’s abyss and he hadn’t even __known__. The sadness, the worry, and guilt, it all mashes together into a fury he’d felt too many times before. “Shut the __fuck__ up, asshole,” He sneers, bright eyes darkening into something dangerous as he glares daggers at the older superhero. “Nothing is wrong with me you dick, __nothing__, now get your ass off the fucking couch-” His voice breaks, his vision is blurry as his eyes burn. Even through building and unwanted tears he sees shock cover their features, slowly taken over by horror as the portal flexes and Donna steps through. It feels like it’s been hours since he last saw her. He doubts it’s even been a minute. “And set up the infirmary.” He finishes in a growl, swallowing thickly in a useless attempt to force away the growing lump in his throat. It’s choking him, blocking his airways. He watches as Donna steps past him, Rachel stumbling through his own portal a moment later, and wonders if anyone else is drowning too.

He feels frozen has the Titans rush down the halls. Donna leads the charge, Dick’s arm swinging uncontained and uncontrolled at his side. He looks dead, pale and clammy, breaths undetectable. God, was he breathing?

Jason wants to run after them, he urges himself to move, but he can’t breath and his limbs are frozen and heavy. Rachel is on the floor, on her knees with hands splayed out on the floor in front of her to keep her upright. She’s gasping and Jason’s selfishly glad he’s not the only one who just __can’t breathe__.

Gar comes rushing in a moment later, shuffling pathetically out of the the kitchen fully clothed and making quick work of the distance between him and the other two teenagers. Jason watches, he feels like that’s all he’s capable of doing anymore. Watching.

Gar kneels beside Rachel and places a careful hand on her back, rubbing soothing circles between her shoulder blades before looking up at Jason. “Are you okay?” He asked quietly, eyes earnest and caring. Jason hates it. Why the hell did he suddenly give a shit? He has no right. None at all.

“He’s not,” Rachel whispers, her voice is meek. She’s hesitant. “I can feel it.”

Anger builds up in Jason’s chest and he welcomes it easily because it’s familiar and helps bury the emotions choking him, killing him, drowning him. “Fuck you,” He growls, sneering at her. She seems to flinch at the rush of anger, the retort, something and Jason can’t help but think __good__.

“Jason-”

“Don’t.” Jason hisses, cutting Gar off. He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear the reassurances, doesn’t want the comfort. These assholes suddenly have the gal to treat him kindly and he’s not gonna put up with it. They’ve all gotten better since they first met but he was still treated like a ticking time bomb, like the poison he knew he was, by everyone. Everyone… but Dick. God, he just wanted his brother.

He’s still tense, cruelly so, limbs still heavy and filled with lead, but he feels them unfreezing. His fingertips tingle with the feeling and he knows his still riding a pathetic panic attack but he doesn’t give a shit. That’s nothing, it means __nothing __in comparison to what’s going on with Dick. He can handle himself.

“He’s gonna be okay.” Rachel huffs, sitting back on her legs and shooting Jason a defiant glare. He meets hers with his eyes narrowed gaze. His rage clashes with her stubbornness; a battle of wills. Neither looks away.

“Shut up.” His hisses. He can’t tell if she’s trying to reassure him or herself. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t need her reassurance.

“Jason,” Gar tries, hesitant but more stern than he had been before. “We’re a team. Let us __be__ a team.”

Jason scoffs, breaking his stare down with Rachel to turn his glare onto Gar. “Yeah,” He huffs, lips twitching up into a barely contained sneer. “A team. Sure. That’s my fucking brother, asshole,” He’s never said that out loud before. Never without the prefix of adopted attached and never with such compassion buried under the anger and hurt. It doesn’t make it any less true. “And he’s the only one on this stupid team that doesn’t treat me like an outsider.”

Something flashes across Gar’s face. Something Jason refuses to identify. He hopes they feel guilty. He hopes it weighs on them.

He scoffs again. Rolls his shoulders. He forces his limbs to move and walks towards the halls like he walks towards a death sentence. “Whatever.” He mutters darkly. The tears are still swimming in his eyes but he will be damned if he lets them fall. He swallows again, the lump in back and prominent as ever.

He’s drowning again and the only person in this tower that actually gives a damn is probably fucking dying.


	9. Jagged Edges

Jason stalks off down the halls, gritting his teeth against the urge to whip back around and start screaming and throwing punches. It would feel damn great to have his fist slam into something- _someone_\- and it would do wonders for taking his mind off of Dick’s still body. Far too still. Dick was stiff, hesitant, and broody at the best of times but Jason saw what the acrobat tried to hide. He was saw the fidgeting fingers and bobbing knees, saw the urge to _move_. Seeing Dick so still, even the rise and fall of his chest indistinguishable in the heap of splayed limbs, made Jason want to scream, vomit, and destroy something. In that order. He’d screamed some, at Hank and Gar mostly. He still felt the push of nausea at the back of his mouth and the churn in his stomach but he’d yet to puke. Maybe he could just skip to the destroy something? The training room wasn’t far from the Med-bay. He could keep an eye on his idiot brother and let out all the pent up rage simultaneously.

It’s weird. Brother. The thought was foreign in his mind. The word even more foreign on his tongue when he’d snapped earlier. Him and Dick had gotten closer since they’d first met. Dick had been hesitant, distant and uncertain, like always but also a little hurt when Jason had first shown up kicking ass for him. He’d never been outright mean, he’d still treated Jason kindly if not a bit standoffish. But Jason can’t really seem to pinpoint when it went from “Oh, sweet, the first Robin” and “Man, I want him to see I’m just as badass as him” and even “He let’s me have his__ name__” to “That’s my brother” and “Bruce is __our__ guardian”. Maybe it was tonight, seeing Dick a way Dick should never be. Maybe it was earlier. Jason doesn’t know, he doesn’t think he’d be able to pinpoint it if he spent the next few days combing through the events of the last year or so. All he knows is that at some point it changed and he wasn’t about to let Dick get out of their brotherhood just like that, dammit.

Even acknowledging it is strange.

He’s still struggling to breathe through the knot in his throat, blinking aggressively against the burning sensation of prickling tears as he comes to a stop in the entryway of the Med-bay watching as Dawn and Donna flock around Dick- he’s still dressed as Nightwing, mask on and top half of his suit peeled back and revealing a map of horrible, deep purple and black bruises along his right side and across his navel- while Hank prepares equipment for treatment. He thinks it doesn’t fucking __matter__ if it’s strange. So what if it was a little odd? It was still true and Jason was never one to succumb to a bit of discomfort in the first place.

He swallows heavily, listening to the unsteady, too-quick flutter of Dick’s heartbeat on the EKG. He takes comfort in the fact that it’s even there, grinding his teeth and swiftly disappearing from the hall before anyone could notice he was there.

The training room is across the hall and two doorways down, not far at all but the loss of the reassuring sound of the heart monitor makes the damned knot grow and the familiar, cold sensation of loss travel down his spine. It curls around his bones, resonating in his flesh as he yanks off the cape clipped expertly to his shoulders. The flash of black and yellow falls to the ground, billowing and flicking up as the air catches it just so. Jason doesn’t pay it much mind. Instead he focuses on ripping off his tunic with trembling, clumsy fingers. The Robin suit has too many pieces, it’s too intricate, ripping off gloves and armor plates and flipping clasps that are usually so easy but now are basically the equivalent to Riddler’s puzzles. Jason let’s out a frustrated yell through gnashing teeth forced together to muffle the loud cry.

He wiggles from the restraint of the tunic eventually but it’s not soon enough, dropping the main piece of the armor onto the floor with a heavy thud that echoes in the wide open space of the training room. His cape and tunic are strewn about in pieces, scattered along the floor, his gloves tossed off who knows where, but his chest is finally bare and the cool air hits his heated skin. His body heaves, shoulders jerking, with desperate breaths, too eager to suck in air. His ribs feel like they’re tightening around his lungs, creaking in to puncture his hummingbird heart-- flittering and frightened.

He doesn’t bother with hand wraps or boxing gloves, moving towards the punching bag he frequented. It was well loved, thick floor stand as scraped and faded as the bag itself. The varying blacks of the bags fabric reminds Jason cruelly of the bruises on Dick’s body. He swings his fist recklessly, knuckles scraping the bag and lighting with pain he barely feels as he screams.

The punches come quicker, more focused now, in a flurry of brutal, concise attacks that make the punching bag rock unsteadily. His vision is blurred, his jaw aching from the pressure he uses to grind his mouth shut, but he focuses only on the release. He punches, and punches, and punches, lashing out until he can’t __breathe__ because what little breath he had is long gone and he can’t seem to get it back.

The punching bag is on the floor, rolling away after a particularly vicious attack it couldn’t take.

Jason follows after it, his knees slamming into the concrete with a loud thump. The impact rattles his bones despite the armor in the remnants of the Robin suit still clinging to his sweat soaked skin. It rattles him, too. He’s wheezing, he can hear it in his ears as he tips forward. He curls in on himself, face contorting into a sorrowful grimace as hands reach up to tangle still trembling fingers into wild hair. He catches a flash of red knuckles, bleeding and likely a few broken. He can’t feel it. All he can feels is the empty chasm tearing through his heart, threatening to swallow him whole as his stomach drops with the impending fall.

He hears the strangled sob that rips from his throat like he’s listening in on someone else. It doesn’t feel much like his own, at least not until he registers how it makes his whole body jerk.

__Get it the fuck together__ He scolds himself harshly, sneering down at the floor as tears finally drip off of long eyelashes. It helps clear his vision and he watches the salty droplets splatter across the concrete.

Another sob rips through him, choking and cruel, ending in a furious grow that sounds so goddamn pathetic.

He’s fucking collapsing, caving in on himself and he’s helpless to stop it.

He didn’t need anybody, never had. He could handle himself just fine. He was strong, and smart, and dangerous. A force to be reckoned with.

He was used to being in pieces, holding the jagged edges of himself out like a weapon.

But after years of being whole again-- safe, cared for, __not alone__\-- he feels the cruel sickness of falling apart all over again.

Dick was supposed to be the one to help him stay together. 


	10. Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise next chapter we're slipping away from Jason's breakdown.

“Hey,”

“Fuck off,” Jason snarls but the words wheeze through chapped lips and only fill the air with a cracked whisper. He sneers at the floor, yanking at his hair as frustration curls up in his chest and fills his stomach with nausea. More tears drip from his eyes, falling to the concrete with gentle tap-taps that fill his ears. He’s hopeless to stop them now. His strength was fleeting and he was collapsing under the pressure he’d put on himself. If Dick wasn’t here to hold the weight of the world with him he had to bare it all on his own.

“Jason-”

“I said __fuck off__!” He yelled, whipping his head up to glare furious daggers at the blurry, green-haired figure in the doorway. His word reverberate, bouncing off the walls and making the new silence feel so heavy.

“No.” Gar mutters, walking forward and making his way towards where Jason kneeled, trembling and scared and displaying emotions he’d couldn’t swash anymore. He was bursting at the seems, everything he worked to hide slipping out through the rips and tears. There’s a flash of purple at the entrance and Jason works to blink away his tears. They slip down his cheeks, forced from his eyes, and while he vision is clear and sees Rachel leaning against the doorway. Her arms are crossed and her eyes averted. Good. __Good__. He hopes this makes her feel as sick as it makes him feel.

Gar is suddenly in front of him, kneeling just the same as him and hovering. He looks worried and Jason thinks he has no right to wear that look of concern. “I’m not just gonna sit back and let you tear yourself apart, man.” Gar is quiet, regretful, and Jason finds himself pondering why. Why does he regret anything? Jason sure as hell wouldn’t regret pushing himself away if he could. He was poison. Only the bats risked having poison in there life. Only bats fought to purify that poison.

“Fuck you,” He breathes, choking the words out through that goddamned knot lodged in his throat. He rapidly blinks away more tears as they filled his eyes. He feels them trace set tracks as he blinks them free. He feels them curl under his chin. He watches as Gar stares, a look of pain etched on his features. He watches as Rachel wraps her arms tighter around herself, undoubtedly picking up on the emotional turmoil raging in Jason that not even he himself could hope to pick apart. “You don’t get to try and fix me now that you can see the damage. You don’t get to spend a year blaming me for shit I didn’t do just to feel bad now.” The words break and stutter, shaking worse than Jason’s body did. That was a feat in and of itself considering how he felt every muscle shudder with fine tremors.

“Why not?” Gar challenges, dark eyes hardening and flashing with toxic green. Gar settles further, relaxing back onto his calves and meeting Jason’s eyes defiantly. “Why can’t we? We have to redeem ourselves somehow, don’t we? I’m sorry we- I, I’m sorry __I__\- never gave you a fair shot. I’m sorry I labeled you trouble after what happened with Deathstroke. But I am not going to just sit back and watch as you-” He cuts himself off, looking around the training room. At the mess Jason had made of his uniform, leaving it in pieces across the floor and almost filling the clean floors with it’s multiple parts. At the punching bag he’d knocked over and hadn’t picked up, stopped by the raised platform by the loft supports. It’d likely still be rolling otherwise. “I don’t know. As you __break__. Jason, we’re a team. I don’t even care if you accept it, or accept that we’re trying to help, but I’m not gonna stop trying.” __It’s what Dick would do__ hangs in the air between them and Jason swallows down the sob that fights to break through.

Jason narrows his eyes, staring back at Gar with the same defiance. He doesn’t have any cool eye tricks, no powers to flare to try and show any sort of dominance like feral animals might, but he does have a temper he can parade about. A warning. A threat.

He doesn’t know how long he glares at Gar and he doesn’t know how long Gar glares back but something shifts at one point. Something in Jason changes, like a piece slipping into- out of?- place. “He could be dying.” He huffs, glare softening but not dropping. He wouldn’t let his guard down and he’d remain wary. He could trust them to have his back on the field but out of it? Never.

“He won’t.” Rachel says firmly.

“Yeah, and how do you know that, huh?” Jason snaps.

“He promised.” She responds vaguely. Jason snorts, shaking his head with a dark, empty chuckle. “What?” She glares at him, unimpressed and offended by his dismissal.

“You think that means __anything__?” Jason asks, raising an eyebrow. He figures the tear tracks on his face and the red rimming his eyes makes the appearance of his trademark smirk unsettling. He hopes the effect works. He hopes their unsettled. He wants them to realize that this is __real__ and Dick isn’t __like __them. “Oh, boohoo, he promised.” He taunts, huffing another amused breath and lowering his head again. He looks at the collection of tears on floor, tiny splatterings along the floor, rogue drops darkening the fabric of his pants even more. “If you think that means something you need to take off the fucking kiddie glasses. He’s __human__. No promise is gonna keep him from kicking it. Dick’s strong and he cares too much cause he’s a damn idiot and he’s fought through a fuck ton but he hid this shit for who knows how long. He hide internal injuries for __days__. He might be strong but he’s tired too, I’m guessing. So what he promised? He’ll do his best to keep your stupid promise because that’s what he does but this is out of his hands. Maybe after he dies you can resurrect him, see if he’s still the same after you work some of your demon magic on him.” Jason sees her feet shuffle, barely visible at the top of his vision. “If you want to comfort me, don’t try and convince me it’ll be alright. Don’t be ignorant and stupid. Don’t try and make promises mean something. I’m from Gotham,” He tilts his head up just enough to look at them. Gar looks a little scared, swallowing compulsively. Rachel looks sick and angry. “People __die__. They die a lot. Get used to it.”


	11. Rugged Love

** **A chapter for Queen_Visenya, who wanted a chapter from one of the girl’s point of view. ** **

Dawn looked down at Dick’s bare face with care, reaching out and brushing back sweaty bangs with gentle hands. Usually, when she hovered over someone in the Med-bay she would watch their unconscious expression and wonder if they were sleeping peacefully. Usually, when she sat vigilant at Dick’s bedside she would be preparing for whatever she was going to say to convince him that he had been an idiot. Now, though, she couldn’t even begin to think about either of those things but instead how much pain he had to be in to grimace through sleep.

His face is twisted into a tight, pained wince and his breathing shudders with each labored inhale. She wonders how she hadn’t noticed because from the examination alone they could tell these injuries weren’t new. They certainly hadn’t come from the robbery bust tonight. She doesn’t question why he’d hid it, no, she knew him too well. He had figured it hadn’t been that bad. Maybe hid it to keep them all from worrying about him. Whatever the reason was she was certain he had done something similar before.

She’d never seen him hide something this bad. She’d seen him hide a fractured arm, a stab wound, a twisted ankle. She’d seen him try and take care of himself and keep everyone from worrying so many times but never had she had to find out by him landing himself in the infirmary. Never had she found out by rushing to save his life.

His injuries were extensive and Dawn was certain the heavy concussion had kept him from realizing just how bad they’d become. The concussion itself was worse than a simple bump on the head. Instead it was a large gash, held together but clotted blood and clumps of thick, dark hair. Maybe the injuries had started off better, less worrying. Maybe his broken ribs had only been cracked or even bruised. Maybe the few puncture wounds had been stitched at some point, treated properly.

She was fooling herself, she knew.

There were no signs of any stitching on the deeper wounds and the bruising couldn’t have been ignored.

They’d had to strip him of the suit, leaving him in only his underwear on the medical cot, but when they had been peeling away the material they’d found a wide array of horrible, deep-tissue bruises. The coloring itself had been concerning, looking as if he’d splattered grotesque mixes of purple, yellow, green, and black paints across his body. They covered everywhere from between his shoulder blades, to across his stomach and sides, to even around his thigh. It must have been agony to move through it all, grappling from rooftop to rooftop utter torture. She hates to think of Dick putting himself through that. She hates to think of the other man in pain at all let alone pain of his own doing.

The bruising had led to further inspection, leaving them concerned for internal damage. Dawn would be forever grateful they’d delved deeper. Dick’s liver- Donna says Jason reported tenderness there- was swollen and raw, on the very brink of rupturing. His ribs, broken and bents as they were, were dangerously close to puncturing a lung. He was so close to killing himself, pushing every boundary they had as humans. Dawn struggled to decide if he was lucky or cursed. Lucky to have just barely skirted around danger or cursed to have to suffer through the agony of it all.

Again she finds herself running her fingers through the sweat-dampened hair, sweeping it out of his eyes. His hair always was difficult to tame. He had been difficult to tame, once, too. He was much too guarded now, too wary. She remembers once when he had bounced in place at the very idea of running across rooftops. Remembers a time when he’d laughed when swinging across the streets. He’d been happier then. She was seeing more and more of that Dick Grayson the more time Dick spent with Jason and Rachel and Gar. Those kids were bringing him out of his shell, prying open the door he’d locked himself behind, smashing down the walls he’s built. His relationship with Bruce was mending, too.

She’s glad this isn’t going to make all the progress for nothing. She’d glad he didn’t get himself killed. She likes to ignore the __this time__ that hangs over her head.

Instead she watches. She’s silent as she does, not willing to risk the distraction.

Dick shifts occasionally, mouth opening in silent gasps of pain as they wait for the pain meds to kick in. He squirms and pants, chest heaving with the effort and sweat beading along his hairline thanks to the fever and the pain. He doesn’t wake, though. He doesn’t even come close. He’s lost in that head of his. Sometimes, Dawn thinks she hears words but they’re in a language she doesn’t understand. She wonders what dream his fever has concocted from him and hopes it doesn’t hurt him more.

Physical wounds were never the kind of hurt that kept Dick down.

She hears familiar footsteps making their way towards the Med-bay and extracts her hand from Dick’s hair, turning to face the doorway not long before Hank appeared in it. He’s carrying two steaming mugs and Dawn can smell the coffee from her seat at Dick’s bedside. Hank sends a glance in Dick’s direction and his scowl deepens. He looks angry but Dawn knows better than that, she knows he’s concerned. He moves forward and holds out one mug to her, sitting in the chair at Dick’s other side and meeting her eyes. “Meds still haven’t kicked in?” He asks gruffly, leaning back and sipping at his drink carefully.

She shakes her hair, light hair that fell loose from her braid swinging into her face. “Minimal improvement.” She reports quietly, nursing her own cup in her hands. Her gaze trails back to Dick’s tense features. “Do we have any idea what happened?”

Hank nods, hesitant, “It’s not much. Guy knows how to cover his tracks. He’s a bat, after all, and he was trying to hide this from us.” He starts, sitting up and reaching over to put his cup on the nightstand. “His patrol report for four nights ago. You know how detailed he is. But this one, it barely said anything. Hell, all it said was that he saved a women from a mugging.” It wasn’t much, not on paper, but knowing Dick it was a lot more than they’d had before. The age of the injuries lined up well, too.

“Something happened.” She mutters unnecessarily.

“Something happened.” Hank agrees, his own gaze sliding down to Dick’s face. “Idiot didn’t say anything. Whatever reason, it was ridiculous. He’s a moron, and when he’s better I’m gonna kill him.” Dawn couldn’t help but smile, her lips twitching up gently as she looked at her partner fondly. Hank’s eyes flick up to her, briefly, but he spots it. “What?” He pushes, a smile of his own threatening to break his rough scowl.

“It’s cute,” She admits, watching with amusement as Hank’s expression fell to confusion.

“What?” He echoes.

“How you care.” She explains. Hank is quick to try and deny it but Dawn just laughs, light and happy. “You do, I know you do.” She insists. “You two and your weird rivalry. One that would stop, you know, if you stopped feeding it.” Dick didn’t want a rivalry and they weren’t in competition. Hank was just wary and hesitant, always reminded of a relationship long dead. Dawn and Dick were friends, but Hank struggles to trust in that. Dawn didn’t fault him for his insecurities, simply tried to reassure him whenever she had the opportunity. “You’re like brothers, you two. A rough sibling relationship but you care. Both of you.”

Hank’s face softens and he lets his eyes fall back down Dick’s face. The pain was beginning to ebb and the younger’s face was beginning to even and relax. Hank nods gently, lost in his head the same way Dawn had been earlier, “Yeah…” He trails off, eyes gentle and sad like Dawn saw them too often. “Yeah.”


	12. A Crazed Man and his Crowbar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, this version has slightly less typos than the FFN version of this story.

_Dick shuddered, shoulders instinctively hunching up to keep the cold breeze from freezing his ears anymore. He’d forgotten his jacket back at the tower that morning and though he’d known it was going to be cold he knew he could handle the temperatures. However, he hadn’t expected to be out so late at the precinct. It was late and the temperatures were dropping steadily and Dick, able to own up to his lack of hindsight, was regretting his decisions visibly. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets and arms exposed by his short sleeves were dotted with goosebumps. Occasionally, when the wind would blow especially hard, his body would react with a full-body shiver. The tower wasn’t too long of a walk from the precinct but he still had at least ten minutes at his current pace until he could huddle up in the warmth of the tower’s commons. He wondered if the others had the fireplace going and couldn’t help but note just how pathetic that thought sounded in his head. _

_ He froze. Not literally, thankfully. Previously steady footsteps slowly fading off as he slowed to a stop. He turns, eyes narrowing as he listens carefully. A muffled sob echoes in the air, almost drowned out by the whisper of the wind but after years and years of being a vigilante, and then a cop, Dick still manages to catch it. It rings out again and Dick’s body moves on its own accord, turning in the direction he’d came from and walking back. He’s forced to remind himself he’s not in costume, no domino mask to hide who is he, and that meant no acrobatics or flawless martial arts. Still, a man can know how to fight and not be a vigilante, and that should be enough to handle this situation… he hopes. It’d be just his luck to accidentally run into a supervillain in his civilian identity. _

_ A customary glance into the first alleyway he comes across leads to nothing but overflowing dumpsters and scampering city rats. His footsteps are silent as he creeps towards the next alley, listening to the muffled cries and resisting the urge to growl when he hears a low voice begin to speak. _

_ “See? That wasn’t so hard.” It says as Dick reaches the corner of his new target. He can tell they’re down this one, the man’s voice bouncing off the bricks. A whimper follows. From the sound of it Dick guesses they aren’t far down the alleyway but he can’t afford the risk of assumption. He doesn’t know exactly what’s going on but he figures it’s safe to treat this as if the man is armed. “Poor guy is none the wiser-” It’s almost funny just how wrong the man is about that “- and you can just hand over the good stuff so I can go on my way. Either that, or I can have a little fun first.” _

_ Dick doesn’t like the sound of that. He’s careful as he glances into the alley, peaking just around the corner so he can get a glimpse on what he’s rushing in on. The sight that greets him isn’t a kind one but it’s much milder than a supervillain, thankfully. There’s the man, dressed in your typical homeless man meets ski-mask robber fashion, holding a rugged switchblade to a woman’s throat. The man’s covering her mouth with his free hand, eyes dark and cruel while his voice portrays his sick amusement. Dick guesses the woman had fought giving up her purse if the pepper spray against the opposite wall and the rip in her shirt sleeve were anything to go by. This was the guy’s retaliation. Dick wasn’t sure if the “fun” he’d mentioned either would involve his knife or his dick but either way Dick wouldn’t let it come to that. Luckily the guy was mostly facing away from him, giving Dick a blind spot to exploit. _

_ He jumps in with expert speed, reaching out with skilled precision and grabbing the man under the arms. He wrenches him back, away from the woman that he has no real grip on, and tosses him to the floor. The knife clatters onto the floor, slipping from his fingers in his shock, and Dick moves the woman behind him. Her face is streaked with tears and her dark hair is a mess but she nods at him stiffly, defiance in her eyes. “Get outta here.” Dick insists, kicking the knife under a dumpster and nodding towards the alley entrance. She gives him another nod and Dick spends a moment wondering if she’d walk forward to kick her attacker where the sun don’t sun before she scampers off to find her way home. _

_ He watches her go, making sure she doesn’t trip on her unsteady feet or drop anything with her shaking hands, but it turns out he watches too long. By the time he’s turning around to take care of the would-be-mugger the end of a crowbar is slamming into his back. He feels the blunt curve dig into his skin, the thin material of his shirt offering no protection against the cruel attack. He barely manages to catch himself, stumbling forward and reaching out with quick reflection to support himself against the wall. _

_ He looks over his shoulder in time to duck under an attack aiming straight for his head, pieces of shattered brick raining down on him and catching in his air before he lunges forward and tackles the man around the waist. The fall the floor without grace, the air leaving the man’s lungs with a wheeze as the crowbar slips from his fingers much like his knife had. Dick’s pulling back his fist, prepared to land a practiced blow, but the attacker is much scrappier than he had initially anticipated. Soon Dick finds a knee burying itself into his stomach, a steel-toed boot kicking at his shin, and then he’s on his back with a man straddling his waist. If Dick didn’t know any better he’d say the man was a speedster but in reality he was most likely slowed by the cold that numbed his body. He was really regretting not heading home to pick up a jacket now. _

_He bucks as the man reaches for the crowbar but Dick swears to god he actually did come across a disguised supervillain because the guy doesn’t even loose his balance. Instead, he twists, knocking the guy over again and switching their positions with an ease he likely shouldn’t have. _Careful, Grayson,_ he reminds himself sternly, _You have an identity to think about here.

_ “Calm down there, buddy. San Francisco Police,” He doesn’t move for his badge. It had taken a while to get his precinct switched and explain just exactly why he’d disappeared from Detroit. He was barely registered in the system as an officer. “You’re down, your mark got away. There’s no point in fighting anymore.” He tries to reason. It doesn’t much work, actually, Dick thinks that makes it worse as the man squirms and growls beneath him. His regrets are really building today and he sadly doesn’t think that’ll stop anytime soon. _

_ “I’ve always wanted to carve up an officer,” The man snarls. Dick can’t help but be taken aback, the words familiar in his mind. A flash of sickly white skin flashes in his mind, followed quickly by toxic green hair and a stretched, grotesque smile and a knife dripping with crimson. The wonderful nostalgia can be another mistake added to list, he figures, when the man reaches up and tangles dirty fingers into his hair and drags him down. With force and momentum doesn’t give Dick much of a chance to stop the attack and the guy again gains the upper hand. Dick’s unsteady, torso pulled down like this, so the man brings up his foot once again and kicks out at Dick’s legs. He catches him particularly rough in the thigh, the tread of his boots scratching against his_ _outer thigh and likely tearing up the flesh underneath and successfully unbalancing him even more. Their positions switch again and Dick has to restrain himself from flipping the guy over his head and stepping on his throat. Instead he squirms as the hand in his hair tightens and yanks his head off the suspiciously wet floor. Dick knows what’s coming and he only has time to screw his eyes shut before his head in slammed back into the concrete. He feels the pain reverberate within his skull, bouncing around his brain and shutting an ache behind his eyes he loathes. The man isn’t done yet, however, and brings Dick’s head up once more. He slams it back again, and again, and again, and Dick quite literally feels his skull crack open. He feels the flesh part, the strain ripping it like his skin was nothing more than a piece of paper. The blood is soaking in his hair, pouring down his neck and pooling with the puddles already soaking his body in what he hopes is water. The man tugs his head up again, Dick gasps, clumsy hands grasping onto the wrist of the hand and holding on with a kitten’s strength. He’s losing his ability to focus and he knows his head is rattled. He needs to get out of this quick, before the man has a chance to do something fatal. His head slams into the concrete again, bouncing like some sort of imitation bouncy ball when the hand leaves his hair. He can feel his scalp throb in time with his heartbeat, the wound at the back of his head sending spikes of agony through his skull to the beat of the same rhythm. He’s gasping for air he didn’t know he’d lost and pushes himself up onto his elbows pathetically. _

_ “You’re a pretty cop, I’ll give ya that. Looks like you just went into the wrong business, kid.” The man speaks, voice filtering in to Dick’s head through ears stuffed with cotton. The weight on top of him leaves and he pushes himself up further, struggling to pull himself together quick enough as the man collects his crowbar. Of course it had to be a crowbar. Maybe it was the Joker in disguise. The crowbar scrapes along the concrete with an unholy screech that makes Dick’s head pound and his vision spin. He barely got himself to his knees before the crowbar was slamming into his stomach full speed, knocking him back onto the ground. The hook catches on his side, the metal points sticking into his flesh and dragging along with the swing. It drags open a wound, tearing his shirt, and gauges out a chunk of skin that sticks the metal tool like a flag. It’s a thin strip, barely there, and Dick chokes on a cry of pain when he slams back into the ground as all the air he’d previously gulped down left his lungs. The wound is shallow, thin, but it still leaks precious red all the same. The man brings the crowbar over his head, lifting it up like he was at a strength contest at the carnival, and Dick barely manages to roll out of the way before it hits the ground. _

_ The man growls, anger and frustration flaring in those dark eyes, and he kicks Dick in his side to flip him onto his stomach. Before Dick can roll back over to a less compromising position the man is digging his foot into the small of his back, pinning him. _

_ “Don’t struggle too much, pretty boy. I might miss.” It was a poorly disguised threat, taunting and proud. Dick was being mocked. He swallowed down the urge to break his leg. It wasn’t a good position to work with but Nightwing would pull it off. He cries out, muffling the noise by biting his lip, the crowbar once against slamming between his shoulder blades. The fire dances along the line of his shoulder, tremors of pain pulsing down his arms and making his cold fingers ache. Again, and it hurts worse, tender flesh bruising and blood rushing to the surface of his skin. Instincts kick in before he can stop himself. He twists with all his might, putting the guys off balance and forcing him to stumble into the wall to keep from falling. Dick gets to his feet, prepared to beat the bastard to within an inch of his life, but the second he’s on his feet his head wound forces him to his knees. His vision whites out for a second and he finds himself with a hand held up to cover the wound, blood seeping out between his fingers, but again the not-supervillain takes the time to recover quicker than Dick thinks is fair. The crowbar is quick to acquaint itself with Dick’s ribs, swung like a baseball bat, and again he feels the once-silver prongs at the end scrape his skin. The wall catches him this time, leaving him sitting against it like a tossed out toy. The man doesn’t hesitate to swing again, wicked smile on his blood splattered face, eyes glinting with satisfaction. Again and again and again until Dick’s sure he feels his skin hanging off his bones, feels mangled flesh drip with blood and gore. He knows he’s exaggerating a bit but he also knows his torso is become a mess of blood and bruises. The man swings again and this time it connects with his side, the hook catching on his back and carving out a particularly large chunk of his body. At this point he was sure the man was swinging the tool wrong on purpose, wanting to see the flesh stripped off Dick’s body. The next hit lands on his stomach, and Dick is so damn tired of feeling like a pinata that not even the spinning in his head keeps him from lunging. He sneers as he tackles the man, slamming the attacker’s head into the wall and slamming his knee full force into his groan. He doesn’t even give the man a second to groan as he wraps an arm around his neck and pulls, letting the cruel man struggle until passing out. _

_It slams into him, leaving him to stumble back into the wall and struggle for breath as he holds a hand to his screaming side. Blood drips from his body onto the floor, the rustling sounds of the windy night covering up the little pat-pats of the droplets. He watches the unconscious man skeptically, almost expecting him to recover from this just as fast as everything else and finish the job. _

_ He stumbles from the alley after who knows how long, working his way slowly down the streets of San Francisco and towards the tower. He, obviously, needed to get himself cleaned up but he sure as hell wasn’t telling anyone about this. It was embarrassing as hell, getting this beat up by one crazed man with a crowbar. He makes sure to call it in on his pathetic trek back towards home, not wanting to man to cause anymore chaos in this city. After he hangs up he winces at the idea of how Hank would rub it in just how easy it was for one guy to beat up the ever-so-amazing Nightwing so badly. He sure as all hell didn’t want the kids to know what happened, Jason would never let him live it down. It didn’t exactly occur to him that this had nothing to do with his skills as Nightwing, he had to hide himself more as Dick Grayson. The thought must has slipped from his mind… the same way blood slipped through his fingers. _

** **__________  
** **

Dick woke with a soft gasp, eyes opening slower than he’d like. They felt heavy. The room was dark but the steady beep of his own elevated heart rate clued him in on where he was. There were noises down the hall, fighting…

He sits up.


	13. Petty Children

“You’re such an ass,” Rachel snapped, nose wrinkling in clear disgust and a glare directed firmly at Jason.

“I’m a realist, dumbass,” Jason replies, glad to have something to throw himself into. The distraction made it easier to push back the tears and the emotion, the resignation and crushing fear. He furiously wipes away one last stray tear and forces himself back up onto unsteady feet. He feels like he’s about to topple again and something sour stirs in his stomach that only adds to the feeling. “He __promised__,” Jason mocks, pitching his voice high and adding a childish lisp just to piss her off more. He scoffs, “Listen to yourself. Fucking pathetic. Promises don’t mean shit, they’re just words. No magical binding agreements or anything. Your stupid fucking promise won’t save his life.”

Gar stands carefully, a physical barrier between Jason and Rachel. Jason thinks it’s funny Gar thinks he could stop him. Jason almost takes him down just to prove Gar is no challenge but he’s strong enough to admit to himself that it’d really just be a flash of anger. Gar extends a hand in both of their directions, as if he was prepared to literally holding them back from tearing each other apart. It’s cute, in that sort of pathetic puppy-in-the-gutter kind of way.

“Then what __is __going to save his life?” Rachel hisses, stepping forward with dark eyes and a scowl that mimicked Jason’s own. Gar is careful to stay between them. Jason scoffs at just how pointless that is. He could flip over to guy in seconds and Rachel’s powers could easily swerve around him. Dick would say it’s the thought that counts but even the thought itself and stupid. “Is it your negativity or breakdowns, huh? Which is it?”

Jason sneers and Gar steps closer to him, stammering to try and save this situation, “Hey, no. C’mon, guys. What’s the point in fighting each other? We’re all stressed out and scared but arguing about it isn’t going to help, ya know?” He turns to Rachel with soft eyes, worried and desperate. “We didn’t come to fight, we came to help, right?” It’s a sad reminder and Rachel seems to let it roll right over her. Gar turns back to Jason and the boy turns his angry eyes from Rachel to him, daring him to try and placate him. Jason was itching to punch either of them in the face, distract himself further from the nausea and the black hole ripping through his chest. “I meant it when I said I wanna try. I don’t want to be enemies, man. Hell, I don’t want to be acquaintances. I think it’d be cool if we could be friends.”

“Oh fuck off! You wanna be friends now that I’m seconds away from tearing you a new one,” Jason snarls. He ignores to spark of hopes that tries to ignite in his chest, letting everything else snuff it out. He didn’t need these losers as friends. No, he didn’t need them at all. Screw friends. Screw them. “We tried friends once.” And they had. It was always frail and Gar never explicitly did something to make Jason made but he also never stood up for him. Any time another Titan would accuse Jason of something when Gar was around the green-haired boy would just watch with sad eyes. Jason knew Gar was confident in Jason. Jason knew Gar never defended him because Gar thought, on some level, he was capable of what he was getting yelled at for. Only two people in this whole tower ever defended him; Dick and Dawn. Even then, it was mostly Dick. It was always Dick.

Gar flinches, clearly remembering the same things Jason did, and Jason let’s his sneer melt into a cruel smirk. This was the same look criminals got before he bashed their heads in. He hoped it worked on allies just as it did on enemies.

“You know what?” Rachel snaps, hand raising in preparation to use her powers. Powers Jason knew like the back of his hand. Training with Bruce and Dick had it’s perks and it was a bat-tactic to know everything about opponent and ally alike. “I’m so over-”

“Hey.”

Jason whipped his head around, looking back at the entrance with wide eyes. Dick. There he was, leaning against the doorway. His hand gripped the arch with a white-knuckled grip, his other arm wrapped around his middle. His skin is pale and sickly, sweat beading along his skin with the stress and exertion of getting himself here from the Med-bay. Jason notes how he’s swallowing convulsively, blinking owlishly, and wonders if he’ll need to run for a trashcan.

“What’re you guys doing?” He older bat asks quietly, clearly exhausted and drugged to high heavens.

Jason moves without thought, quickly making his way across the room and to Dick’s side. He hovers, uncertain, and swallows thickly. He can’t wrap his arm around Dick’s middle without causing unnecessary pain but he also refusing to leave the man standing here in pain. “C’mon idiot,” He mutters distractedly under his breath, gently prying Dick’s hand away from the door and drawing his arm slowly across his shoulders. Jason had genuinely forgotten his chest was exposed until he felt Dick’s fevered skin pressed into his own. The heat is uncomfortable, making Jason sweat too, but it doesn’t stop him from helping Dick stumble to the nearest set of benches. He’s careful in lowering his brother down onto the backless seat, extraction the arm from around him like he afraid Dick’s bones would shatter if he was too rough. He doesn’t think he’s ever treated anything with such care before and he can see the worry on Dick’s face. Neither acknowledge it.

“So,” Dick drawls, his own bare chest rising with deep, hesitant breaths. There’s a faint trace of pain lining Dick’s features and Jason loathes it. “You didn’t answer my question. What’re you doing?”

“Jason had a breakdown,” Rachel accuses. It’s childish and Jason growls. All the fights he’d ever had with her always ending up being petty and childish. He hated it, feeling like he was losing his touch with how easily she could get under his skin. He wonders if Dick ever felt that way with him.

“She’s a fucking moron.” Jason retaliates.

“Guys,” Dick huffs. He’s worn down and ragged, hair a mess and too-big sweatpants rumbled. He’d simply look exhausted-- like when he runs himself into the ground for a case until he’s forced to go to sleep-- if it weren’t for the bruises and lacerations covering his body. A few of the cuts, a particularly deep one running along his hip, is stitched together while others remain dark scabs rising over darkening bruised skin. It was like he fell over sideways into a vat of cool-toned paints. Dark, unfocused eyes drag over to Gar. “What’s going on?” He asks-- __pleads__.

“You collapsed after the robberies earlier tonight,” Gar pauses, “Yesterday night? Anyway, we got you back here a couple hours ago but uh, it took a toll on us to see you like that, you know? Jason came here to let off some steam and me and Rach came down to help him out while the others treated you--” Jason snorts, sour and disbelieving. What a wonderful job at helping they’ve done. Dick raises a clumsy hand and drops it into Jason’s hair. It shocks Jason enough that he falls silent. “-- We, admittedly, weren’t the best at it. But Rachel said you’d be okay because you promised and that kind of set Jason off. They’ve been arguing for a bit before you got here.”

Jason smirks, doing his best to ignore the weight on top of his head, and watches as Rachel squirms a bit. Saying it out loud really makes her seem like a whiny toddler and it’s oh so satisfying to hear it laid out bare. “Like I said. Moron.”

“Yeah, well,” Rachel rolls her eyes, “I wasn’t the one crying over Dick being out of it.”

Jason can practically feel Dick trying to catch his eyes but Jason purposefully keeps his glare locked on Rachel.

“Jay…”

“Oh fuck off, Dick.” Jason snaps. He moves to pat away the hand in his hair, feeling stupidly like an angry kitten. That’s not exactly the image he wants attached to himself.

“I’m okay. You know that, right?” Dick pushes, using his hand now to grab Jason gently by the chin and tilt his head towards him. Jason can’t stop his face from softening, the sickness and fear and despair making itself known again.

“You weren’t.” He argues. Turning and dropping himself onto the bench beside Dick. His shoulders sag and he leans down to drop his head into his hands. It’s not long before his hands move to tangle in his hair. “Why didn’t you say anything you fucking asshole?” He demanded, turning to glare at a very guilty Dick Grayson.

“You kind of freaked us out,” Gar adds hesitantly, stepping forward to place himself on the floor in front of Dick, crossing his legs under him. The other boy’s gaze is locked on the floor, fingers picking at the threads of his textured jeans. “What if you’d gone down __during__ the fight and not __after__?”

“I wouldn’t have. I’ve fought through worse.” Dick says and Jason snorts at the man’s idea of reassurance. Dick’s face softens and despite the fact he’s swaying where he sits Jason feels like he’s the strongest one there. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I’ll be honest, I was kind of just… embarrassed.” He flinches, wincing at just how bad that sounds. “Not to mention I wasn’t exactly thinking straight.” He vaguely gestured to his head, where Jason knows first hand a large gash and potential fracture resides at the back of his skull.

“Embarrassed about what?” Rachel questions quietly, stepping forward herself and lowering onto her knees beside Gar. Jason feels like he’s part of some story circle at the library. It feels different and infantile and Jason wants to hate it so much because he’s not some snot-nosed kid but he’s just so glad that Dick’s sitting next to him that he can’t find it in himself to feel it all.

“Well,” Dick rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, head dipping to hide eyes behind his bangs. “Mostly because it was just one guy that did this to me.”

Okay… that wasn’t at all what Jason was expecting.

“I was stopping this woman from getting mugged but I wasn’t __Nightwing__ at the time. Dick Grayson isn’t exactly as capable but he still should have been able to handle the situation. The guy happened to be a lot crazier than initially expected. That and he had a crowbar.” Dick explains. Jason knows he’s gonna dig for more later, this little snippet it not enough to satisfy him, but right now he just feels incredulous.

“You’re fucking serious?” He demands, mouth slipping agape. He likes to imagine Gar and Rachel are much the same but he doesn’t spare them a glance.

“Mhm,” Dick confirms, nodding and then wincing at the movement. “I’m gonna blame the wild concussion for the fact that I forgot it doesn’t exactly reflect on my skills as a vigilante. I was trying to avoid further embarrassment and then after that I was just trying to keep you all from worrying.” He explains. “Lot of good that did me.”

“Oh yeah, the whole tower is in a tizzy now.” Jason rolls his eyes.

Dick just smirks, “So… You really cried over me?”

“Fuck you!” Jason screams over the sound of barely suppressed laughter, heat flaring up in his cheeks. He has to fight back a smile, though, feeling a relief that began to soothe the tempest of emotions roaring in him now that he knew Dick was okay.


	14. Comfort and Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it took me so long to update this. I actually really wanted to finish the story in November but I just fell out of it. I got really invested in the Titans Amino and even became a curator, not to mention became friends with and started a roleplay with another really cool Titans fan. 
> 
> I hope you all have a Happy New Year/Decade and I promise I'm going to finish this story in January and maybe even start up a new one. 
> 
> Thanks for being patient with me and if you really want to, you can come yell at me in Titans Amino. I'm the curator Nightwing.

Dick resists the urge to groan as a wave of pain rolls over him. He’s sure he’s pumped full of pain medication but the Titans had been disbanded for a long time and though they’ve been back together for about a year or so he hadn’t been hurt a lot. Not too badly, at least. That being said, that meant that no one really knew what medications he’d developed an immunity to.

He’d have to update his medical records in the tower just so this wouldn’t happen again. His whole body ached, throbbing in time with his heart, and though it wasn’t the agony he’d felt before it felt like centipedes beneath his skin pushing against his bruised skin.

“Dick?” Rachel prods, “You’re uncomfortable.” She eases, scooting a bit closer on her knees, reaching up as if to place a hand on his knee.

“Don’t empath me right now.” Dick huffs, disgruntled, but it comes off much snappier than he’d meant it too and he quickly tacks on a “Please.” His head is still spinning and he hopes he isn’t swaying the way he thinks he is because that’d be horrifically embarrassing.

“Didn’t they, like, drown you in morphine or some shit?” Jason asks. Dick sees past the dark scowl on the boy’s face, meeting his concerned gaze.

Dick considers his answer. His head tilts slightly and he sucks in a long breath through his nose. His ribs protests, sharp pain stabbing through his side to remind him just how stupid deep breaths currently were. He’d gotten himself into this situation through lying, even if it was just lying by omission. He spent a lot of time convincing his team that he was fine but now they’d figured out just how damaged he was. They wanted to help, now, and he didn’t want to deny them that. He also didn’t want to put himself through more than his body could handle. The fact that he’d collapsed right after a battle was bad enough, what if it _had_ been during that battle?

Dick huffs and nods hesitantly, “Probably. I’m guessing they used something I’ve built up an immunity against, though, because I still hurt like hell. It could actually be morphine.” He admits. “It’s better, though.” Not a lie, thankfully, meaning Rachel wouldn’t sense his fibbing. A quick glance in her direction revealed that he was right, a weird mix of satisfaction and worry contorting her gentle features.

“I’m gonna go get Dawn.” Gar starts slowly, looking between Jason and Rachel. He pushes himself from his position on the floor, fidgeting for just a moment before resting a hand on Dick’s shoulder and squeezing gently.

The teen flees before Dick can say anything, scampering away and through the entrance before the man’s foggy mind can catch up.

He turns back to Jason and Rachel and offers up a soft, “I’m sorry I kept this from you.” As apologetically as he could. He had underestimated his injuries and forced himself to push through something that could have been fatal. Logically, he knows he should have told at very least Dawn or Kori but his pride had held him back from reaching out to anyone. He had honestly thought he could handle it and save himself the embarrassment and his team the worry but in the end that hadn’t worked out. If anything, this was worse than it would have been if he’d just said something in the beginning.

Jason snorts, “You’re a fucking asshole.” He snaps, sneering, and Dick wishes the kid would accept a hug right about now. Jason was like a wounded animal, feral and snappish to hide his wounds and protect himself. Dick was determined to prove to Jason that he didn’t need to be defensive, not with him. Dick would always be there for Jason and he’d never belittle him or kick him out. Jason was family and Dick was damn good at taking care of his own.

Dick nods solemnly, leaning back slightly and trying to straighten his posture and stretch his muscles even if it stung in the worst places, “Yeah, definitely.” He agrees melodramatically, lips twitching up when Rachel smiles and Jason snorts. Success.

“Richard ‘Dick’ John Grayson you fucking asshole.” Dick turns to see Dawn storming towards him, platinum blonde hair bouncing with each rage-filled step. Rachel scoffs behind him, amused and likely satisfied that Dick was getting the scolding she believed he deserved. She wasn’t exactly wrong on that front, Dick conceded silently to himself.

“Thank you!” Jason adds and Dick can hear the smile in the boy’s voice. Even if it was at his own expense Dick was glad that Jason could smile now. Considering he was allegedly crying earlier he deserved something to smile over.

“First you go and get yourself hurt and then after we patch you up you go walking around?” Dawn asks indignantly, usually soft and bell-like voice raised sharply. Dick could almost imagine her words forming blades and stabbing into him. “I’d say I can’t believe you but this is just so like you, I shouldn’t be surprised.” She hisses.

Dick nods, just taking her scolding as she lets off steam. He knows what happened had probably messed up everyone and Dawn was rightfully angry with him. He’s realized now the mistakes he’s made and how it could have put not only him in danger but his team. If he’s being honest with himself, he thinks he deserves the reprimanding too.

Dawn’s expression softens when she actually takes a second to look at him, though. He must look worse than he thought because she’s not only sympathetic but she actually seems worried. “Gar said we didn’t give you strong enough painkillers.” Her words are back to the soft tone Dick is used to, gentle and warm. “Let’s get back to the infirmary so you can tell me what you actually need.”

Dick nods for what feels like the millionth time that hour alone, despite knowing how aggressively hyperbolic that was, and braces an arm on the bench, his other hand pressed against his aching side, and pushing himself to his feet with a strained grunt. Jason quickly hooks Dick’s arm around his own shoulders, taking as much of Dick’s weight as he could without putting too much strain on the bruising between the man’s shoulder blades.

It’s a shuffle to the exit, Dawn leading the way and Jason helping while Rachel and Gar just looked on in concern, but they make it to the hall quickly enough.

It may be a pain but in the end Dick thinks this will be a good opportunity to talk to Jason alone and give the second Robin the comfort he won’t admit he craves. He just has to get through Dawn’s wrath and fight the of the enervating effects of anesthetics. That shouldn’t be too hard after everything he’s put him himself through so far.


	15. Birds of a Feather

Dawn was fiddling with his new IV drip, the needle pierced through the skin on the underside of his forearm pumping what Dick knew to be fentanyl through his veins. He wasn’t entirely looking forward to the drug kicking in since fentanyl tended to leave him drowsy and oddly cold but he was definitely counting on the relief from the pain his injuries brought. His eyes lazily slide up to where Jason leans against the doorway, his arms crossed and face set in a dark scowl. He’s focused on the downward pull of the boy's lips, the flashes of emotion that flicker in his usually bright eyes, and Dick feels a wave of guilt pull him under. He remembers again that Rachel said Jason cried, over him no less, and he finds himself determined to make it right.

He jolts when Dawn turns and rests a gentle hand on his bare shoulder, her fingers warm against his sweat-dampened skin. She gives him a stern look, “Don’t leave. At least until that bag,” She nods to the bag hanging on his IV drip, waiting until his eyes followed her gaze before speaking again, “Is empty. You understand me?” It was phrased as a question but Dick knew a demand when he heard it.

He conceded easily, nodding an affirmation as he lets out a soft hum. With such a direct injection into his body he could already feel the fentanyl starting to work bringing on the drowsiness with it. Dawn must see it because she couldn’t him back against the inclined back of the medical bed and makes for the doorway. She tries to lay a comforting hand on Jason’s shoulder as she passes, maybe offer a reassuring squeeze, but Jason violently shrugs her off and turns his head away. Dawn doesn’t try again, accepting Jason’s mood for what it was, and disappearing down the hall back in the direction of the gym where they’d left Gar and Rachel.

For a long time only silence hangs in the room. Dick isn’t hooked up to an EKG, he insisted it wasn’t necessary and Dawn caved when he wouldn’t let her clip her finger. It was childish, he admits, but the heart monitor would be far too much of a giveaway to any distress he felt while talking to Jason. The kid didn’t need that. Besides, he wasn’t going to go into critical condition anytime soon so it really was unnecessary. Now, with the insistent beep of his heart rate there’s only quiet.

Dick thinks it’ll be better if Jason reaches out to him. If Jason starts something nothing he says will be influenced by something Dick said. He wants Jason to open up to him on his own, reach out because he wants to not because Dick sat him down and forced something out of him. He realizes that there’s an unspoken time limit now, from past mistakes of waiting too long for someone to come to him, so he settles on reaching out to Jason if the boy decides not to talk to him now. This is Jason’s opening and Dick sincerely hopes he takes it.

Jason shuffles his feet, glaring daggers at the linoleum tiles of the recovery room. Dick knows that normally he’d be able to wait patiently, watching Jason as he tries to work through and process whatever was going on his head, but right now he’s becoming increasingly more tired by the second and finds himself eagerly waiting for Jason to speak up.

“You’re a fucking moron, Grayson.” He finally snaps, fingers tightening on his biceps as he looks up to glare at Dick through messy curls and thick eyelashes. Dick figures that’s as good a start as any.

“Enlighten me.” He urges, relaxes entirely into the raised backing of the infirmary cot. Laying down made him feel too vulnerable, too exposed, and he doesn’t think laying tired, pale, and bruised would help with Jason’s frayed nerves.

Jason takes that as an invitation, pushing off the door frame and storming forward like he was in civilian clothes on the streets and not clad in only the bottom half of his Robin suit in the Medbay. “I don’t know why you think we’ll find you unworthy or whatever dumb shit but you could have gotten yourself killed. You realize that, right?” The teen sneers, the dark eyes flashing with a fury and passion that Dick had worried he’d never see again. He’s okay if it’s directed at him, as long as it’s still there that’s all that matters. “Where would that leave all of us? Oh, boohoo, I didn’t want to worry you guys, I was embarrassed,” He whines mockingly, turning on his heel and throwing his hands up into the air. “We’d be so far beyond worried if you fucking _died!_”

“Aw, you do care.” Dick joking coos before he can reel it back in, the fentanyl screwing with his usually made-of-steel brain-to-mouth filter.

“This isn’t a joke!” Jason shrieks, whirling around back to face him with fist clenched, white-knuckled, at his sides. There are tears in his eyes, rimming narrowed eyes and blurring gunmetal irises.

Dick is shocked for a second. Honestly struggling for words as he takes in Jason’s angry expression and devastated eyes. Jason’s eyes always seem to tell a different story, ever since he said those things about being poison on the Tower roof a year go Dick felt like there was always a secret hiding there. He missed the mark this time, messed up without even meaning to, but he’s still selfishly glad that he could dig the truth up out of Jason before it boiled over and the new Robin did something terrible.

“You’re right,” Dick starts slowly, testing the waters and scanning Jason for any sort of dramatic change. “It’s not a joke. I’m sorry. I know it was stupid and I shouldn’t have done it but I can’t promise I won’t do it again.” Jason tenses further, shoulders rising and fists beginning to shake as the tears threaten to spill over.

“And why’s that, huh? You think it’s more important to suffer than to let us help you? You some kind of masochist? Never would of thought you the type but I should have known. You throw yourself at danger enough, I should have fucking known that’s how you get your rocks off.” Jason growls and Dick worries he’s gonna end up hurting himself with how hard he’s clenching his fists. The tension has to go somewhere and he’s obviously trying not to cry but that doesn’t justify hurting himself.

Dick easily brushes off Jason’s words. He knows he’s just trying to offend Dick, get him riled up, so they can change the topic or Jason would have a reason to leave. He become somewhat used to Jason underhanded tactics by now. “No.” He insists, letting that one word fill the room for a few moments before pushing onwards, “Because no matter how much you all tell me it’s not a problem my number one goal is still to avoid burdening you. It’s a hard habit to shake, Jason, but I’ll always put you all first.”

Some of the tension drains for Jason’s shoulders and his fists stop shaking. His lips tremble, though, and twitch downwards. Tears are clinging to Jason’s eyelashes now, fighting to fall while Jason urges them desperately not to. “That’s not fair.” He tries to insist but the effect is shattered when his voice breaks on the last word.

“I know.” Dick whispers, slowly sitting up and swinging his legs off the side of the cot. “I know,” He echoes, “But sometimes things aren’t fair. You know that. I can’t stop being a moron, it’s kind of just who I am.” That gets an almost-smile out of Jason and Dick thinks that that’s progress. He’d call himself all the names he needed to to make Jason feel better but he refused to make false promises. He could tell Jason he’d stop throwing himself into danger, tell Jason that he’d never hide an injury again, but he knows that he’d be lying and he doesn’t want to do that. Not now. Not while Jason was holding onto his words like they were things to be cherished and remembered. “Tell me what you need me to do. Tell me what I _can_ do.”

Jason sniffles, aggressively swiping the back of his hand across his eyes to brush his tears away. Dick’s words leave only a tense silence in it’s wake, Dick waiting for Jason’s next words and choking on the suffocating silence. He feels impatient, the urge to move itching beneath his skin, but he forces himself still and watches Jason calmly.

Jason lets out a harsh breath, a breathy laugh following as he tilts his head back, “God, I don’t know.” He hisses, sounding more angry at himself than he was angry at Dick. Dick finds that he’d prefer it the other way around. “I don’t fucking know what I want you to do. I want you to not collapse on us again.” Even in the low light Dick can still see the tears bubbling up again, pooling in Jason’s eyes staring up at the ceiling. “But that’s apparently not an option.”

Dick was starting to get sick of silence. He’d never been a huge fan but these last few years he’s cherished it more often than not. Not he feels like the quiet is forcing down his throat, filling his lungs and leaving no room left for air. He’s drowning in the silence and there’s nothing he can do but wait for it to go away, for something to fill it. Part of him wishes that he’d agreed to the EKG because the beeping would have at least filled the silence but the other part of him thinks that the steady sound would have made it worse; making the room fill like a ticking time bomb.

“I’ll tell you what,” Dick starts slow, waiting for Jason to bring his head back down to look at him. Dick restrains himself from cringing when a single tear finally falls, trailing down Jason’s cheek. Jason doesn’t even seem to notice, staring at Dick with pleading puppy eyes that gauge a hole into the acrobat’s aching heart. “Whenever you want, and I mean whenever, you can check on me yourself. Even if you have just the slightest suspicion you have free reign to come running and check.”

Jason seems to mull that over, looking doubtful, but eventually he nods slowly. He licks his lips, sniffles again, “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He agrees, another tear tracing the same path the other had previously forged. He sucks in a long breath, loud and steady, and forces a smile to curl his lips contorting the shining tear tracks on his face, “I’m so gonna abuse that.”

His face says mischievous and teasing but his eyes still scream hurt; scared.

Dick chuckles, shaking his head, and beckons Jason closer, “C’mere real quick.”

Jason looks skeptical, eyebrows furrowing together and smirk slowly fading away to hesitant confusion. “Why?” He trails off.

“Just c’mere.” Dick urges, again beckoning Jason closer.

Hesitantly Jason creeps closer, like a skittish kitten, but the second he’s close enough Dick reaches out and draws the boy into a much needed hug. At first Jason squirms, struggling in Dick’s tight grip as the man drags him halfway up onto the cot beside him.

“Hey!” Jason cries, still wiggling, pushing lightly at Dick’s chest. It was obvious he didn’t want to risk hurting Dick and considering most of his torso was bruised right now there wasn’t much leverage for Jason to use. “What the hell, man?” he huffs.

“No point in struggling, just accept your fate, Little Wing.” Dick insists, the new nickname sliding off his tongue before he could even think about it.

“Ew, don’t call me that.” Jason groans, but despite the fact his face was mostly hidden from Dick’s sight he could still see the soft smile curling his little brother’s lips. Jason heaves himself the rest of the way onto the cot beside Dick, hesitating a moment before resting his head on Dick’s shoulder. Dick releases his unyielding hold, instead wrapping an arm around Jason’s shoulder and holding him comfortably against his side.

“Sure thing, Little Wing.” Dick nods, grinning into the dark room and chuckling lowly when Jason groans.

“You’re still a moron.” Jason insists, breaths trembling a bit but both of them willfully ignoring it.

“I’m okay with that.” and honestly, he couldn’t care less.


End file.
